•t. 


*mi*-* 


Cfceljm  "^Tan  Courtlanb 


BY 

WILLIAM  HENRY  CARSON 

Author  of 

"Hester  Blair,"   "Tito,"  "Fool" 
Etc.,  Etc. 


R.  F.  FENNO  &  COMPANY 

18  EAST  SEVENTEENTH  ST. 

NEW  YORK 


COPYRIGHT,    1907,  BY 
R.  F.  FENNO  &  COMPANY 


.  C. 


2134656 


EVELYN  VAN  COURTUND. 


CHAPTER  I. 

"!F  you  believed  a  man  innocent " 

"My  duty  to  the  State  is  paramount.  Though  I 
may  indulge  an  opinion,  I  may  not  allow  it  to  in- 
fluence me." 

The  speaker,  Wilton  Le  Moyne,  looked  into  the 
eyes  of  his  companion.  His  voice  was  calm;  in  the 
tone  was  a  ring  of  authority.  At  the  moment  he  was 
the  embodiment  of  his  calling — the  District  Attor- 
ney. Manly  strength,  dignity  and  reserve  power 
were  stamped  on  face  and  form.  He  was  of  the  high- 
est type  of  lawyer  and  gentleman — a  man  with  whom 
one  would  entrust  one's  life. 

Evelyn  Van  Courtland  met  his  glance ;  she  smiled 
quizzically. 

"I  am  not  on  trial,"  she  playfully  retorted. 

"True ;  I  had  forgotten.  Were  such  the  fact,  how- 
ever, and  I  the  judge,  I  would  convict  you  of " 

"Well?" 

9 


io          d&jelpn  Pan  CourtlanD. 


"Of  premeditated  indifference,  yes,  even  with  mal- 
ice aforethought." 

"Oh,  those  forbidding  legal  terms  !  And  the  charge 
—  unjust  as  law  often  is.  For  the  past  half  hour, 
with  my  customary  success,  I  have  been  endeavoring 
to  force  you  to  express  an  opinion." 

"On  legal  subjects.  And,"  he  laughed  with  engag- 
ing frankness,  "I  have  never  had  so  many  questions 
asked  me  in  so  short  a  time  ;  mostly,  too,  on  subjects 
in  which  women  take  but  slight  interest.  Now,  if 
you  would  make  yourself,  instead  of  law,  the  topic 
of  discussion,  you  would  find  me  responsive,  even  lo- 
quacious." 

Refusing  to  notice  his  reference  to  herself,  she  re- 
plied, a  touch  of  seriousness  in  voice  and  manner  : 

"Prosecutor  !  A  slight  change  makes  the  word  one 
of  the  most  odious  in  the  language  —  persecutor." 

"There  is  a  vast  difference  between  the  two." 

"Yet  how  narrow  the  dividing  line.  Duty  might 
demand  that  you  prosecute,  but  that  sense  of  duty 
might  be  influenced  by  personal  feeling  —  ambition, 
greed,  revenge.  You  would  not  try  to  convict  a  man 
of  murder  i^  you  believed  him  innocent  ?" 

There  was  an  incredulous  note  in  her  voice. 

"A  man  is  convicted,  not  by  opinion,  but  by  evi- 
dence." 

"Do  you  believe  that  ?"  she  asked  doubtingly. 

"Let  us  discuss  a  more  cheerful  topic." 

"For  example  -  ?" 


l^an  CourtlanO*  11 

"Yourself." 

"Less  worthy  and  wholly  uninteresting,"  she  re- 
joined. Then,  determined  on  pursuing  the  subject, 
she  continued:  "I  can  understand  the  enthusiasm 
with  which  a  lawyer  defends  human  life:  his  sense 
of  responsibility,  his  determination  to  succeed — it  is 
grand,  even  to  contemplate ;  but  to  exert  one's  ability 
to  convict — 

Le  Moyne  smiled  at  her  earnestness.  There  was 
approbation,  rather  than  censure,  in  his  glance.  Her 
words  fired  dormant  desires  and  ambitions. 

"A  woman's  heart  directs  her  judgment.  She  feels 
deeply  and  acts  quickly.  She  reasons  at  her  leisure 
— leisure  which,  unfortunately,  often  embraces  eter- 
nity." 

"To  force  you  to  give  a  direct  answer  seems  hope- 
less. I  believe  I  must  acknowledge  failure." 

"Why  is  it,"  he  laughingly  demanded,  "that  we 
always  discuss  serious  subjects?" 

"We  don't.  You  refuse.  I  presume  you  consider 
a  woman  incapable  of  discussing  legal  matters." 

"You  should  have  studied  for  the  Bar.  You  have 
had  me  under  fire  of  cross-examination  all  the  even- 
ing. The  court  now  rules  that  I  be  excused.  We 
shall  renew  our  wordy  warfare — when  ?" 

Before  she  could  reply  they  were  joined  by  another 
guest,  and  the  conversation  became  general. 

Howard  Van  Courtland  had  gathered  around  him 
a  few  congenial  friends  for  an  informal  evening  at 


12          Cfcelpn  l£an  CourtlanD* 


home.     The  time  was  near  midnight  in  the  spring 
of  18  —  ,  the  place  New  York  City. 

The  host  was  of  the  class  of  American  gentlemen 
that  look  upon  inherited  wealth  as  a  trust,  the  care  ' 
of  which  is  a  duty  they  owe  to  their  natural  heirs. 
When  he  had  reached  the  age  of  one  and  twenty,  Van 
Courtland  came  into  possession  of  a  vast  fortune; 
but  this  did  not  deter  him  from  becoming  the  active 
head  of  the  banking  house  founded  by  his  ancestors. 
The  cares  of  business  had  left  him  prematurely  gray, 
his  face  serious,  its  expression  even  forbidding.  Few 
men  knew  him  well,  and  these  held  him  in  high  es- 
teem. His  manner  was  reserved,  even  cold;  in  his 
eyes,  like  a  cloud  that  never  lifts,  was  an  habitual  ex- 
pression of  pensiveness,  amounting  to  abstraction. 
But  his  appearance  did  not  reflect  the  man's  inner 
nature.  The  impassive  reserve  challenged  the  judg- 
ment of  the  observer.  His  eyes,  though  kindly,  were 
like  wells  of  unknown  depth,  whose  veiled  surface  hid 
a  seething  tempest  You  caught  a  glimpse  of  a  soul 
held  in  restraint,  escaping  in  unguarded  moments, 
only  to  disappear  again  behind  a  human  mask. 

Standing  at  the  threshold  of  the  library,  which  ad- 
joined the  drawing-room,  his  glance  traversed  the 
length  of  the  room  till  his  eyes  rested  on  his  daughter. 
Instantly  the  expression  of  his  face  changed  —  tender- 
ness and  pride  transforming  his  features.  Instinc- 
tively he  turned  to  where  his  wife  was  conversing 
with  his  junior  partner,  Marshall  Harlan.  The  mask 


CourtlattD*  is 

was  resumed ;  the  light  in  the  eyes  died ;  and  a  gray- 
ish pallor  settled  on  his  features.  To  those  acquaint- 
ed with  the  cause;  the  change  from  an  expression 
of  supreme  tenderness  to  one  of  settled  resignation 
would  have  passed  unnoticed;  but  the  transition  was 
like  the  shadow  of  a  tragedy.  His  daughter  awak- 
ened whatever  interest  life  held  for  him;  his  wife's 
beauty  seemed  to  leave  him  barren  of  all  emotion. 

Yet  Van  Courtland's  wife  was  a  singularly  beau- 
tiful woman.  There  was  a  striking  resemblance  be- 
tween mother  and  daughter ;  they  might,  indeed,  have 
passed  for  sisters ;  for  the  elder  woman  still  retained 
her  youthful  figure.  Though  seemingly  engrossed 
with  her  companion,  Mrs.  Van  Courtland  was  too 
clever  a  woman  and  hostess  to  neglect  her  other  guests, 
and  she  maintained  a  watchful  interest  for  their  en- 
tertainment. She  had  also  noted  her  husband's  omi- 
nous expression ;  her  bantering  laugh  had  caused  Har- 
lan  to  look  at  her,  surprised. 

"It  was  nothing,"  she  said  evasively.  "I  was 
amused  at  Mr.  Le  Moyne's  attempt  to  interest  Ev- 
elyn. The  dear  child  doesn't  realize  that  he  is  mak- 
ing desperate  love  to  her.  He  is  conducting  his  suit 
according  to  the  most  approved  rules  of  law,  and  in 
quite  a  cold-blooded  manner." 

"Wilton  is  a  brilliant  fellow." 

"True,"  she  answered,  banteringly,  "yet  Evelyn 
hasn't  the  faintest  idea  that  he  is  very  much  in  ear- 


14          o&jeln  $an  CourtlanD, 


nest.  Like  her  father,  she  is  wholly  lacking  in  senti- 
ment; in  Wilton's  case,  even  of  a  sense  of  humor." 

"I  am  really  fond  of  Le  Moyne.  He'd  make  an 
ideal  husband." 

"Dear  me,"  she  answered,  petutantly,  "people  have 
the  most  absurd  notions  of  what  an  ideal  husband 
should  be.  A  man  first  considers  another's  bank  ac- 
count and  position  in  life  ;  then  he  measures  the  pros- 
pect for  the  other's  advancement.  This  latter  he  views 
in  the  light  of  future  dividends.  He  never  consid- 
ers a  woman's  feelings.  Should  she  entertain  foolish 
notions  of  love,  in  the  eyes  of  the  world  she  is  re- 
garded as  sentimental.  I  detest  the  very  name  of 
wealth,  of  social  position.  One  hour,  one  moment  of 
love  —  love  that  sets  the  pulses  throbbing  -  " 

"Hush!  You  were  never  more  beautiful  than  at 
this  moment  ;  but  your  eyes  talk  too  eloquently.  Some 
of  your  guests  might  not  consider  it  rude  to  listen." 

"Oh,  I'm  tired  of  it  all!  —  weary  of  the  artificial- 
ity. I  suppose  I  should  be  demure,  matronly,  and  — 
grow  fat  with  becoming  grace.  Haven't  I  a  marriage- 
able daughter?  IVe  suppressed  every  emotion,  and 
shuddered  through  twenty  years  of  torture.  How 
can  things  go  on  as  they  are  now?  It  is  intoler- 
able!" 

"Calm  yourself.  Your  cheeks  are  flushed,  and 
twice  I  have  seen  Howard  look  this  way.  We  must 
be  more  circumspect.  My  relations  with  him  are  be- 
coming strained.  In  the  office  we  rarely  speak." 


^att  CourtlanD,  is 

"Where  is  it  to  end — and  how  ?" 

To  give  her  an  opportunity  to  regain  her  com- 
posure, Harlan  remained  silent. 

The  men  had  been  associated  in  the  bank  for  many 
years.  Van  Courtland  had  given  the  best  part  of  his 
life  to  the  upbuilding  of  their  banking  house — and 
the  years  had  lain  a  heavy  hand  on  him.  Older  than 
his  wife,  when  time  had  robbed  her  brilliant  social 
position  of  its  glamour,  both  had  been  brought  to  a 
realization  of  their  disparity  in  age,  taste  and  tem- 
perament. It  was  the  old  story — as  old  as  the  world's 
history :  his  happiness  was  to  be  found  in  the  accumu- 
lation of  wealth ;  his  wife  was  left  to  gratify  her  de- 
sire for  pleasure  as  she  chose.  It  might  seem  that 
their  daughter  should  have  drawn  them  into  a  closer 
sympathy,  that  husband  and  wife  would  strive  to 
overcome  an  indifference  that  long  since  had  grown 
to  mutual  dislike;  but  such  was  not  the  case.  The 
father's  love  centered  in  his  daughter;  and  the  wife, 
conscious  of  his  neglect  of  herself,  made  no  pretense 
at  disguising  her  growing  repugnance — he  received 
from  her  only  contemptuous  indifference.  Though 
aware  of  the  tie  that  existed  between  his  partner  and 
his  wife,  Van  Courtland  demanded  only  that  she  re- 
spect her  marriage  vow.  Jealous  of  his  honor,  main- 
taining an  authoritative,  though  silent,  supervision 
over  her  social  life,  his  unspoken  doubt  was,  to  one  of 
her  temperament,  more  exasperating  than  open  cen- 
sure. 


16          oftjelpn  $an  CourtlanD* 


There  had  been  stormy  scenes,  mutual  upbraid- 
ing, but,  as  yet,  no  open  accusation;  and  Evelyn, 
though  a  daily  witness  to  their  uncongenial  life,  was 
far  from  suspecting  the  truth.  Existing  conditions, 
however,  could  no  longer  continue.  The  wife  had 
thrown  aside  all  semblance  of  caution,  and  seemed 
desirous  of  courting  an  open  rupture.  It  was  also  evi- 
dent that  Van  Courtland  could  no  longer  maintain 
friendly  relations  with  his  partner. 

Before  the  guests  began  to  arrive,  Van  Courtland 
had  expostulated  with  his  wife,  warning  her  that  a 
public  scandal  threatened.  His  reproof  had  been  met 
with  maddening  silence.  Stung  to  the  quick,  he  con- 
trolled his  anger  ;  and  they  received  their  guests  with 
their  customary  well-bred  concern. 

No  breath  of  scandal  had  as  yet  touched  his  wife, 
but  love  for  his  daughter,  and  fear  for  his  own  name, 
had  turned  doubt  into  belief.  He  suspected  the  truth, 
proof  alone  was  lacking. 

A  general  movement  among  the  guests  foreshad- 
owed their  departure.  In  the  library,  adjoining  the 
drawing-room,  Mrs.  Van  Courtland  was  leaning  over 
a  collection  of  drawings.  Harlan  stood  beside  her. 

"They  are  going,"  he  said. 

"To-morrow,"  she  whispered. 

A  nod  of  his  head  was  the  answer. 

One  word  only,  and  the  movement,  that  was  all; 
then,  together,  they  entered  the  drawing-room.  A  mo- 
ment later  Harlan  departed. 


OEtielpn  $an  CourtlanD*          17 

An  ashen  pallor  settled  over  the  features  of  Van 
Courtland,  for  the  whisper  and  responsive  nod  he  had 
heard  and  seen.  He  stood  in  the  hall,  calm,  cour- 
teous, the  cultured  host,  every  line  of  his  features  de- 
noting refinement;  but  with  a  heart  and  mind  impa- 
tient to  avenge  his  honor. 

The  last  guest  had  bidden  host  and  hostess  good- 
night, and  the  servants,  after  turning  down  the  lights, 
sought  their  quarters  to  gossip  of  the  world  they 
served.  Evelyn  Van  Courtland,  in  one  of  the  semi- 
darkened  parlors,  lingered. 

It  was  in  the  library  that  Van  Courtland's  wife 
first  noticed  her  husband's  drawn  features.  They  be- 
lieved themselves  to  be  alone.  Had  Van  Courtland 
known  that  his  daughter  was  sitting  where  every 
word  fell  with  terrible  distinctness  on  her  ear,  no  hu- 
man power  could  have  induced  him  to  speak.  The 
first  horrible  accusation  left  the  girl  stunned,  unable 
to  cry  out  to  her  mother  to  deny  the  charge,  to  brand 
what  her  father  said  as  untrue.  Through  shame  Eve- 
lyn remained,  helpless;  the  accusing  voice,  hoarse 
with  passion,  was  the  only  sound. 

Van  Courtland  abruptly  ceased  speaking,  and  hur- 
ried through  the  front  hall  to  the  street.  The  door 
had  closed  after  him  when  Evelyn's  mother  entered 
the  drawing-room.  Even  when  she  met  her  daughter, 
and  realized  that  she  must  have  heard  all  that  had 
been  said,  she  did  not  lose  her  composure.  The  young 


is          <£fceln  $an  Couctlantu 


girl  rose  to  go  to  her  room,  but  her  mother  intercepted 
her. 

"Evelyn,  you  have  heard  what  your  father  said  !" 

There  was  a  note  of  fear  in  her  voice.  It  was  not 
the  mother  who  spoke,  but  the  woman  —  afraid  before 
tier  kind.  Evelyn  did  not  reply,  but  again  attempted 
to  pass  into  the  hall. 

"What  have  you  heard?  You  shall  answer  me!" 
Without  waiting  for  reply,  she  continued:  "You  — 
you  do  not  believe  —  what  your  father  said  ?" 

"Do  not  force  me  to  reply." 

"You  must  answer  me." 

Mrs.  Van  Courtland  looked  fearfully  into  the  eyes 
that  met  hers;  the  elder  woman  quailed.  In  her 
daughter  she  recognized  the  latent  power  and  de- 
termination of  the  father.  At  that  moment  Evelyn 
seemed  to  have  entered  the  domain  of  womanhood. 

"My  father,"  she  faltered,  "would  not  unjustly  ac- 
cuse you.  I  —  believe  him."  Without  further  speech 
she  went  to  her  room,  closing  and  locking  the  door. 


$an  CourtlanH,          19 


CHAPTER  II. 

IT  was  when  Evelyn  was  alone  that  she  realized  the 
full  import  of  the  words  to  which  she  had  listened. 
She  now  saw  clearly  what,  in  her  inexperience,  had 
before  escaped  her.  Realizing  that  the  scene  between 
her  parents  would  lead  to  a  separation,  she  pondered 
the  course,  she,  herself,  should  pursue.  Acute  as  was 
her  own  suffering,  it  was  of  her  father  she  thought: 
his  shame  and  humiliation  was  what  caused  her  pres- 
ent agony  of  mind.  Her  mother !  the  thought  of  her 
only  awakened  a  feeling  of  pity.  Love  and  perfect 
trust  had  never  existed  between  mother  and  daughter. 
Conscious  of  her  mother's  neglect,  since  childhood 
Evelyn  had  looked  to  her  father  for  sympathy  and 
affection.  The  years  that  had  added  to  the  young 
girl's  beauty,  brought  to  the  mother  rankling  jeal- 
ousy, intensified  by  her  husband's  neglect.  But  re- 
gardless of  his  feelings,  she  had  plunged  into  social 
excesses,  until  her  attachment  for  Harlan  made  a 
reconciliation  impossible,  and  though  Van  Courtland 
had  expostulated,  she  had  met  his  rebukes  with  mad- 
dening silence  or  open  derision. 

For  an  hour  or  more  Evelyn  lay  on  a  divan,  filled 


20          OEtoelpn  Pan  Cotmland, 


with  an  overwhelming  sense  of  her  position.  Scenes 
and  incidents  that,  in  the  past,  had  made  but  little 
impression  on  her  mind,  now  rose  before  her  with 
new  and  revolting  significance.  Why  had  she  been 
blind  to  the  facts?  And  her  father,  perhaps,  lived 
the  past  years  with  this  secret  doubt  ! 

Rising,  in  an  agony  of  mind,  she  paced  the  floor. 

"Father!" 

The  one  word,  uttered  in  a  hopeless  voice,  sounded 
the  keynote  of  her  existence.  Since  childhood  her  fa- 
ther had  been  her  confidant  and  companion.  It  was 
to  him  she  had  always  gone  for  advice,  and  for  the 
past  few  years  they  had  been  inseparable.  She  had 
inherited  his  firmness,  even  his  chartcteristic  traits 
were  reflected  in  herself  —  his  walk,  his  manner,  his 
cold  reserve.  Though  a  brilliant  conversationalist,  it 
required  tact  to  induce  her  to  talk  freely;  and  this 
was  accomplished  only  by  those  who  were  listened  to 
as  authority.  Suitors  were  drawn  to  her  by  her 
beauty,  but  they  received  only  slight  notice  or  en- 
couragement; it  was  the  mind  that  attracted  and  in- 
terested her.  Men  to  whose  opinion  the  world  lis- 
tened, who,  by  their  energy  or  talent,  had  made  for 
themselves  a  name,  found  her  responsive.  But  ad- 
mirers were  forced  to  content  themselves  with  a 
show  of  well-bred  interest,  a  smile  or  a  word  of  recog- 
nition ;  only  one  among  them,  Le  Moyne,  having  suc- 
ceeded in  approaching  terms  of  intimacy.  He  was 
not,  however,  deceived:  it  was  his  profession,  not 


CoimlanD*          21 

himself,  that  awakened  her  interest.  His  calling  had 
furnished  an  excuse  to  seek  and  enjoy  her  compan- 
ionship, and,  unlike  the  others,  he  felt  safe  from  a  re- 
pulse, and  was  content. 

Her  mother's  voice,  from  the  hall,  roused  her. 

"Evelyn,  I  wish  to  speak  to  you.  Will  you  open 
the  door  ?" 

"I  cannot  see  you.    Please  leave  me  alone." 

With  an  impatient  exclamation  her  mother  re- 
turned to  her  own  room. 

Had  she  realized  the  battle  the  young  girl  was 
fighting  with  the  promptings  of  her  own  heart,  the 
knowledge  might,  perhaps,  have  had  the  power  to 
soften  her  feelings  of  resentment,  and  have  influenced 
their  future.  Evelyn  was  conscious  that  the  time  had 
come  when  she  must  choose  between  her  father  and 
her  mother.  The  events  of  the  past  night  made  it  im- 
possible for  them  to  remain  under  the  same  roof;  it 
was  equally  obvious  that  Evelyn  must  choose  be- 
tween them.  Though  she  tried  to  persude  herself  that 
she  would  consider  the  matter  well,  she  had  come  to 
a  decision.  It  was  now  that  her  father  would  need 
her  sympathy;  she  could  not,  she  would  not,  desert 
him. 

Besides,  her  mother's  wrong  was  not  to  be  readily 
condoned.  When  Evelyn  considered  her  own  posi- 
tion, when  the  thought  arose  that  in  her  own  veins 
flowed  her  mother's  blood,  she  was  filled  with  a  feel- 
ing of  guilty  shame.  The  damning  thought  arose  that 


22          eur  I  PIT  $an  C  our  thin  D. 

the  curse  of  inheritance  might  be  hers,  making  itself 
felt  in  future  years.  She  could  never  be  free  from 
the  fear  that  before  its  power  she  might  be  helpless. 
kWas  it  a  curse  that  may  be  transmitted  ?  Did  it  carry 
with  it  its  own  punishment;  or,  by  a  caprice  of  na- 
ture, did  its  avenging  influence  seek  a  victim  in  a 
succeeding  generation  ?  Bitter  were  the  young  girl's 
thoughts.  In  the  early  evening  she  had  descended  to 
the  drawing-room,  the  embodiment  of  youth,  of 
beauty,  her  mind  untainted  by  the  knowledge  of 
things  unclean ;  she  had  returned  a  woman,  her  heart 
filled  with  bitterness. 

Again  her  mother's  voice  in  the  hall,  the  tones 
querulous  and  uneven. 

"Evelyn,  will  you  speak  to  me  ?" 

A  sudden  feeling  of  pity  took  possession  of  the 
young  girl.  She  took  a  step  towards  the  door  to  open 
it,  then  stopped. 

"Your  blood  is  hers — it  is  stained." 

The  words  seemed  to  be  whispered  into  her  ear. 
Her  features  hardened. 

"No,  I  do  not  care  to  see  you." 

Leaning  against  the  window  she  looked  out  upon 
the  street,  unconscious  of  passing  time.  Aroused  by 
someone  mounting  the  stoop,  and  recognizing  her  fa- 
ther's step,  she  remained  in  a  listening  attitude,  until 
he  had  closed  the  outer  door.  After  cautiously  as- 
cending the  stairway  to  the  second  landing,  he  paused 
for  several  minutes ;  then  noiselessly  entered  his  pri- 


$an  CourtlanD.          23 

vate  room.  Almost  immediately  he  began  pacing  the 
floor,  his  footfalls  being  distinctly  audible,  his  step 
at  times  rapid,  again  uncertain;  pausing  at  inter- 
vals, only  to  resume  his  walk  with  nervous  energy. 

Listening,  her  heart  beat  in  sympathy  with  his,  for 
she  knew  what  he  suffered.  Should  she  seek  to  com- 
fort him  ?  No,  he  must  fight  out  the  battle  alone — 
it  were  better  so.  She  knew  that  his  thoughts  were  of 
her;  that  his  suffering  was  intensified  by  the  fear 
that,  perhaps,  she  might  condemn  the  course  he  would 
pursue.  Again  and  again  she  was  on  the  point  of  go- 
ing to  him,  for  she  was  aware  that  in  his  present  state 
sleep  would  be  impossible;  but  she  crushed  the  de- 
sire. 

"He  is  best  alone,"  she  mused.  "To-morrow,  when 
he  is  calmer,  we  can  discuss  the  future." 

Throughout  the  night,  except  for  intervals  of  a  few 
minutes,  the  sound  of  his  footfalls  never  ceased. 

The  noise  of  the  servants  beginning  their  labors 
roused  Evelyn.  She  had  not  slept.  Eising  from  the 
couch  where  she  lay,  she  bathed  her  face  and  waited 
impatiently  for  the  breakfast  hour.  She  longed  to 
see  her  father  and  speak  to  him.  Would  her  mother 
be  present  at  the  morning  meal  ?  Shuddering,  she  de- 
scended to  the  floor  below. 


24  €uelpn  Uan  CourtlanD. 


CHAPTER  III. 

COWTSAEY  to  Evelyn's  expectations,  her  mother  en- 
tered the  room  and,  after  her  customary  greeting, 
took  her  place  at  the  breakfast  table.  They  were 
soon  joined  by  Van  Courtland,  and  the  meal  pro- 
gressed in  silence.  When  her  father  appeared,  Ev- 
elyn noted  his  extreme  pallor — on  his  face  the  hag- 
gard expression  of  one  who  had  not  slept.  After  her 
first  glance  she  gave  her  attention  to  the  meal.  No 
attempt  was  made  at  conversation,  and  but  little  pre- 
tense at  eating  by  any  of  the  family. 

A  servant,  as  was  his  custom,  laid  the  morning 
papers  on  the  table.  Wishing  to  hide  her  evident 
embarrassment,  Mrs.  Van  Courtland  glanced  at  one 
of  the  papers.  Scanning  the  headlines  on  the  first 
page,  with  an  involuntary  exclamation  the  paper  fell 
from  her  hand.  Rising  hastily,  she  directed  a  search- 
ing look  at  her  husband's  face,  then,  without  com- 
ment, left  the  room. 

Evelyn,  surprised,  picked  up  the  paper  and  eagerly 
read  the  words :  "Murder  of  a  prominent  banker.  The 
body  of  Marshall  Harlan  found  in  his  study  in  the 
early  morning  by  a  servant.  But  few  details  can  be 


$an  Courtlantu          25 

given.  The  last  person  known  to  have  seen  the  un- 
fortunate man  alive  is  a  clerk  in  the  banking  house 
of  Van  Courtland  Co.,  of  which  Harlan  was  a  part- 
ner. An  arrest  is  soon  to  follow." 

Silently,  and  with  trembling  hand,  she  gave  the 
paper  to  her  father.  Unable  to  speak  or  move,  she 
stood  watching  him  while  he  read  the  article  to  the 
end.  On  his  face  was  the  same  inscrutable  expres- 
sion she  had  noted  when  he  entered  the  room.  Lay- 
ing the  paper  on  the  table,  he  rose  and  stood  beside 
her  chair. 

"Evelyn,  dear,"  he  said  in  a  calm  voice,  "try  to  be 
brave.  This  is  a  great  shock  to  you.  Owing  to  my 
past  business  relations  with  Mr.  Harlan,  I  must  take 
active  steps  in  this  unfortunate  affair.  I  depend  on 
my  daughter's  courage." 

The  sudden  news,  following  so  closely  the  events  of 
the  past  night,  seemed  to  leave  Evelyn  incapable  of 
thought  or  action.  Instinctively  she  seemed  to  regard 
Harlan's  tragic  end  as  a  sequence  of  the  quarrel. 
She  was  dazed,  bewildered,  and  looked  hopelessly  into 
her  father's  face. 

"What  can  we  do  ?"  she  faltered. 

"My  dear,  you  can  do  nothing.  I  must  act  without 
loss  of  time.  Go  to  your  room,  child;  I  will  send 
your  old  governess  to  you." 

"Please  don't,"  she  pleaded.  "I  would  rather  be 
alone." 

"You  must  allow  me  to  judge  in  this  matter.    The 


26          dftjelpn  $an  courtlanD. 


present  is  a  trying  time  for  us.  I  will  go  to  the  city 
at  once;  but  I  shall  return  at  the  earliest  moment." 

After  embracing  her,  he  left  for  the  city,  and 
Evelyn  went  to  her  own  room. 

As  it  was  before  his  usual  time  for  starting  for  his 
place  of  business,  and  not  wishing  to  wait  for  his  car- 
riage, Van  Courtland,  after  procuring  a  later  edition 
of  the  paper,  boarded  a  downtown  car.  In  prominent 
type  was  the  news  he  sought.  Shortly  after  the  dis- 
covery of  Harlan's  body,  Hugh  Malcolm,  a  clerk  in 
the  employ  of  Van  Courtland  &  Co.,  was  placed  under 
arrest.  The  paper  further  stated  that  the  accused, 
who  was  a  young  man  of  brilliant  promise,  was  known 
to  have  been  with  Harlan  after  midnight.  The  article 
went  on  as  follows  : 

"Shortly  after  11  o'clock,  Malcolm  rang  the  bell 
at  the  home  of  the  deceased  banker,  and  inquired  of 
the  servant  if  he  could  speak  with  the  master  of  the 
house.  He  was  informed  that  Mr.  Harlan  was  not 
at  home.  The  servant  noticed  that  the  young  man  ap- 
peared unduly  excited.  At  his  request,  after  much 
hesitation,  the  servant  admitted  him  to  the  library, 
which  was  on  the  ground  floor,  the  windows  opening 
onto  a  broad  piazza.  She  did  not  see  him  again, 
but  could  hear  him  walking  nervously  about  the 
room.  The  master  of  the  house  returned  about  mid- 
night, and  nothing  further  was  heard,  for  after  his 
arrival  the  servant  had  retired. 

"In  the  early  morning  a  man  servant,  seeing  the 


$att  CourtlanD*          27 

windows  open,  looked  into  the  library  and  discovered 
Harlan's  body.  The  arrest  of  Malcolm,  who  was 
known  to  be  in  the  employ  of  the  banking  house,  fol- 
lowed. The  fact  that  the  accused,  after  his  arrest, 
refused  to  discuss  the  subject  of  his  interview  with  the 
deceased,  or  in  any  way  to  explain  his  untimely  visit, 
is  considered  evidence  of  his  guilt.  Public  opinion 
inclined  to  the  belief  that  the  officers  of  the  law  have 
the  murderer  in  custody." 

While  reading  the  details  of  the  finding  of  the 
body  of  Harlan,  Van  Courtland's  face  betrayed  not 
the  faintest  evidence  of  emotion ;  on  his  features  was 
his  customary  expression  of  calm,  in  his  eyes  coldness 
and  disdain.  The  man  who  now  lay  dead  had 
brought  dishonor  to  a  name  that,  in  social  or  business 
life,  for  more  than  a  century,  had  been  unsullied.  As 
lie  read  the  grewsome  details  of  what  little  was  known 
of  the  tragedy,  he  was  moved  by  neither  pity  nor  re- 
gret. He  remembered  his  partner  as  one  who  had 
wrecked  a  home:  one  whose  punishment  had  been 
commensurate  with  his  disregard  of  social  laws. 
These  thoughts  swayed  Van  Courtland  while  gleaning 
such  information  as  was  known  of  the  tragedy;  but 
when  he  read  Malcolm's  name,  and  the  charge  against 
him,  his  features  underwent  a  change.  Despair 
seemed  to  overpower  him,  the  hand  that  held  the 
paper  trembled ;  as  if  moved  by  a  sudden  resolve,  he 
rose.  His  daughter's  name  on  his  lips,  he  cast  a  fur- 
tive glance  of  alarm  about  him  to  see  if  he  had  been 


28          Cfeelpn  t£an  CourtlanD, 

observed,  then  sank  into  his  seat.  No,  he  must  go 
on — it  was  already  too  late  to  retreat ;  for  himself  or 
the  future  he  cared  nothing ;  but  Evelyn  must  be  con- 
sidered. The  past  few  hours  had  wrought  a  marked 
change  in  his  appearance.  In  his  eyes  was  an  expres- 
sion strange  to  them — resignation,  fear,  mute  en- 
treaty, followed  by  flashes  of  alarm  that  died  into  an 
expression  of  hopelessness.  With  a  nervous  start  he 
scanned  the  face  of  each  passenger  entering  the  car ; 
then,  as  though  conscious  of  his  excited  condition, 
again  began  reading  the  paper. 

He  did  not  proceed  directly  to  his  place  of  business. 
Alighting  from  the  car,  he  went  to  the  office  of  the 
District  Attorney.  Sending  in  his  name,  he  was  ad- 
mitted without  delay.  It  was  only  after  entering 
that  he  was  informed  that  the  District  Attorney  was 
not  in ;  that  officer's  associates,  however,  divining  Van 
Courtland's  business,  were  ready  to  confer  with  him. 

What  took  place  at  the  interview  will  never  be 
known.  When  Van  Courtland  returned  to  the  street, 
his  appearance  was  that  of  one  who  had  surrendered 
to  the  inevitable. 

After  her  father  had  left  her,  Evelyn  remained  in 
her  room,  the  door  locked,  her  only  desire  to  be  left 
alone.  Servants  came  to  inquire  if  she  were  in  need 
of  their  services;  these  she  sent  away.  Should  she 
require  them,  they  were  told,  she  would  ring.  Her 


CourtlanD.          29 

mother  again  demanded  admission.     At  first  she  was 
refused,  but  Evelyn  finally  yielded  to  her  appeal. 

When  she  entered,  Evelyn  calmly  waited  for  her 
to  speak.  They  were  strikingly  alike  both  in  face 
and  form — the  elder  woman  in  the  fullness  of  mature 
beauty ;  the  daughter  rivaling  her,  but  possessing  the 
added  charm  of  the  delicate  freshness  and  color  of 
youth.  To  the  young  girl  belonged  a  personal  distinc- 
tion of  manner  and  bearing  that  the  other  lacked — an 
authoritative  pose  that  she  inherited  from  her  father. 
It  was  this  unconscious  and  indefinable  trait,  a  mag- 
netism that  manifested  itself  more  by  its  power  over 
the  mind  than  by  a  direct  appeal  to  the  senses,  that 
lent  an  added  charm  to  her.  It  was  subtile  but  unas- 
sertive. Her  manner  was  gentle,  high  bred  and  con- 
siderate ;  but  you  felt  her  power.  From  a  mental  and 
intellectual  point  of  view  there  was  little  in  common 
between  them.  The  mother  had  never  understood  the 
young  girl,  but  she  had  watched  her  approach  woman- 
hood with  a  pang  of  jealousy.  In  her  own  child  she 
beheld  a  rival — one  whose  beauty  was  daily  increas- 
ing ;  her  own  long  acknowledged  supremacy  she  main- 
tained only  by  increasing  effort.  Besides,  she  feared 
her  daughter.  Her  frankness  disconcerted  the  elder 
woman.  Evelyn,  as  though  by  instinct,  seemed  to 
possess  a  knowledge  of  the  world,  together  with  a 
power  of  insight  into  the  human  mind,  before  which 
her  mother  quailed.  Even  to  herself  she  would  not 
admit  her  daughter's  mental  superiority ;  affectionate 


so          dBtielpn  $an  CourtlanD, 

advances  being  brushed  aside  as  affectation,  and  time 
only  added  to  a  growing  feeling  of  formality  between 
them. 

"Evelyn,"  her  mother  said,  "you  are  cruel." 

The  voice  was  tremulous.  The  eyes  of  the  speaker 
dwelt  upon  the  reproachful  face,  then  fell  before  the 
calm,  steady  gaze. 

"Cruel!"  There  was  a  tinge  of  sarcasm  in  the 
voice.  "Have  you  ever  considered  my  father's  feel- 
ings?" 

"He  was  unjust !  It  is  not  of  him  I  wish  to  speak. 
I  came  to  ask  you  why,  without  hearing  one  word  of 
explanation,  you  condemn  your  own  mother  ?" 

She  was  regaining  her  customary  composure;  her 
form  straightened,  and,  to  impress  her  listener,  she 
assumed  the  role  of  the  injured. 

"I  do  not  wish  to  do  you  an  injustice,  but — do  not 
force  me  to  repeat  what  I  have  already  said.  I  do  not 
believe  my  father  would  accuse  you  without  cause. 
Please  do  not  press  the  subject  further.  Can  you  not 

"Yes,  I  do  see !"  Her  voice  was  pitched  in  a  high 
key;  the  blood  mounted  to  her  cheeks.  "And  you, 
too,  my  own  daughter,  dare  accuse  me !  You,  whom 
we  supposed  to  be  above  knowledge  of  such  things,  so 
demure,  so  nun-like !  You  have  learned  early  in  life 
to  judge  such  matters.  After  your  father's  accusa- 
tion, followed  by  this  shocking  tragedy,  I  have  de- 
termined not  to  remain  here.  By  the  way,"  she  con- 


l?an  CourtlanO.  31 

tinned  hurriedly,  her  tone  half  bantering,  half  ma- 
licious, "your  father  left  the  house  last  night  and  did 
not  return  for  two  hours.  Mr.  Harlan  was  discovered 
murdered  early  this  morning." 

The  words  were  spoken  with  brutal  abruptness. 
For  the  first  time  during  their  interview  Evelyn  was 
on  the  point  of  losing  her  composure.  With  an  effort 
she  controlled  her  voice. 

"My  father  went  out — as  vou  say " 

t/  «/  */ 

She  paused  as  if  the  words  stifled  her.  Her  body 
swayed  slightly,  and  a  convulsive  twitching  of  the 
muscles  of  her  face  betrayed  her  suffering.  Again 
and  again  she  made  an  effort  to  speak,  but  each  at- 
tempt failed.  Taking  a  step  nearer,  her  words  came 
in  hurried,  confused  tones. 

"You  cannot  mean  that — surely  you  do  not  believe 
— what  your  words  suggest?" 

The  other's  light  laugh,  and  a  motion  of  the  hand, 
as  though  she  would  turn  the  subject  aside  as  of  no 
moment,  aroused  the  young  girl  to  a  frenzy  of  indig- 
nation. 

"Dear  me,  Evelyn,  how  impassioned  you  are  be- 
coming." Though  the  voice  was  calm,  the  words 
were  mocking.  "I  merely  wish  to  remind  you  of 
what,  doubtless,  you  already  knew — your  father  was 
away  from  home,  leaving  here  shortly  before  mid- 
night. This  morning — you  know  what  followed." 

Evelyn  stood  as  if  stunned.    She  could  not  mistake 


32          (Etoelpn  $an  Courtland. 


her  mother's  inference;  but  she  dare  not  trust  her- 
self to  reply. 

"Am  I  to  understand  that  you  intend  remaining 
with  your  father  ?" 

"Yes." 

"Then  you  believe  his  charges  ?" 

Evelyn  remained  silent.  With  increasing  agita- 
tion, the  elder  woman  again  spoke. 

"I  demand  that  you  answer  me." 

Evelyn  slowly  raised  her  eyes  to  her  mother's  face. 
There  was  pity  rather  than  condemnation  in  her 
glance.  It  was  a  silent  duel  of  minds,  of  power  of 
will,  and  the  young  girl  was  the  victor.  Before  the 
look  the  mother  quailed,  and  shrank,  shuddering,  as 
if  her  moral  weaknesses  were  laid  bare  —  her  inquisi- 
tor her  own  daughter.  The  insecurity  of  her  po- 
sition, the  uncertainty  of  the  future,  flashed  before 
her  mind  ;  for  she  appreciated  to  the  fullest  what  her 
social  status  would  be  without  the  protection  of  her 
husband's  name.  She  had  never  before  seriously 
considered  her  own  child,  nor  had  she  taken  pains  to 
measure  her  mental  capacity  ;  and  the  knowledge  that 
she  was,  though  silently,  passing  judgment  on  her, 
caused  the  blood  to  rush  to  her  cheeks. 

How  different  were  Evelyn's  thoughts.  Before  her 
she  seemed  to  see  her  father's  face,  as  it  appeared 
when  she  had  left  him  in  the  early  morning  —  an  ex- 
pression in  his  eyes  that  she  had  never  before  seen  in 
them.  His  look  of  restless  fear  haunted  her.  What 


Courtlantu          33 

was  its  import  ?  She  could  not  understand  it,  neither 
could  she  banish  it  from  her  mind.  When  he  had  em- 
braced her,  before  starting  for  the  city,  there  was 
something  in  his  manner  so  unusual,  so  foreign  to  his 
customary  candor,  as  to  attract  her  notice.  Believing 
the  quarrel  to  be  the  direct  cause  of  his  unhappy 
state,  knowing  how  deeply  he  would  feel  the  sting  of 
his  dishonor,  she  was  in  no  mood  to  palliate  or  forgive 
her  mother's  wrong.  If  momentary  pity  or  compas- 
sion threatened  her  resolve,  before  her  rose  the  vision 
of  her  father's  face,  as  she  had  last  seen  him.  Her 
look  of  determination  dispelled  all  doubt  of  her  pur- 
pose. 

"I  shall  remain  with  my  father,"  she  said  with 
quiet  dignity ;  "further  than  that  I  refuse  to  discuss 
the  matter." 

"Without  a  word  her  mother  left  her. 

When  she  had  gone,  and  Evelyn  was  alone,  a  real- 
ization of  her  decision  overwhelmed  her.  Yet  to  her 
no  other  course  seemed  possible.  Whatever  might  be 
the  outcome  of  present  conditions,  she  determined  to 
devote  her  future  to  her  father.  His  lot  in  life  would 
be  hers ;  her  sympathy  could,  at  least,  make  his  suffer- 
ing less  keen. 

Finding  comfort  in  the  thought,  she  wearily  await- 
ed his  return. 


34          dEfeelpn  $an  CourtlanD. 


CHAPTER  IV. 

"JEFFERSON  COLERIDGE  STRONG,  Attorney  at 
Law,"  in  black  letters  on  a  brass  plate,  told  the  man's 
name  and  profession ;  but  to  those  who  knew  him,  his 
fine  sounding  name  was  lost.  To  high  and  low,  rich 
and  poor,  he  was  simply  Major  Strong.  His  worth, 
even  measured  by  the  standard  of  great  men,  placed 
him  in  the  front  rank  of  his  profession,  for  he  en- 
joyed a  practice  that  was  national  in  extent. 

There  is  an  almost  universal  belief  that  lawyers 
are  a  heartless  class  of  human  beings,  and,  when  not 
preying  upon  their  clients  for  a  livelihood,  employ 
their  time  and  energy  swindling  each  other.  The 
world  voted  Major  Strong  an  exception  to  this  general 
theory.  Had  he  no  enemies,  he  would  have  been  reck- 
oned unworthy  of  the  laurels  he  had  won  in  many  a 
hard  fought  battle.  Such  enemies  as  he  had  made, 
had  come  with  his  success,  for  success,  to  some  peo- 
ple, is  an  offence  not  easily  forgiven.  But  the  Major 
laughed  with  the  world,  and  the  world  honored  him 
for  joining  in  its  mirth;  and  his  enemies,  too  dis- 
creet to  oppose  opinion,  that  became  more  evident 
each  day,  applauded  the  Major's  success  and  growing 


OEfcelpn  ^an  CoimlanD.          35 

popularity.  He  had  one  powerful  argument  in  his 
favor — he  won  his  client's  cases.  In  fact,  he  won 
nearly  every  case  he  tried.  When  he  talked  to  a  jury, 
they  listened ;  when  he  addressed  the  court,  the  judges 
paid  him  the  honor  of  their  undivided  attention; 
when  he  won  his  case,  the  Major  smiled.  It  was  a 
quiet  smile,  wholly  friendly,  without  a  trace  of  malice 
or  sarcasm ;  and  even  the  opposing  counsel  could  take 
no  offense.  The  moments  of  greatest  pleasure  to  the 
Major  were  not,  as  might  be  supposed,  in  contemplat- 
ing his  many  triumphs  at  the  bar,  nor  in  the  enjoy- 
ment of  the  wealth  which  of  late  years  had  come  to 
him  in  increasing  abundance.  It  was  the  hour  or 
more  when,  after  the  strain  of  an  arduous  trial,  with 
a  few  friends,  lawyers  like  himself  of  the  old  school, 
he  sat  in  his  private  office,  and,  in  the  joy  of  listening 
to  the  laughter  of  his  companions,  forgot  the  wrang- 
ling and  the  bitterness  of  the  day. 

A  week  had  passed  since  Harlan's  untimely  end 
had  startled  the  country.  The  mystery  was  as  great 
as  ever.  Hugh  Malcolm  had  been  held  for  the  Grand 
Jury.  His  reticence,  his  refusal  to  answer  questions, 
Or  give  information  as  to  the  object  of  his  midnight 
visit  to  the  home  of  the  deceased — all  this  pointed  to 
his  guilt.  His  means  were  limited — his  salary  being 
his  only  source  of  income.  At  the  preliminary  hear- 
ing he  had  refused  to  employ  counsel,  and  this  unac- 
countable fact,  together  with  his  seeming  indifference, 


36          <£toelpn  $an  CourtlanD* 


only  tended  to  make  stronger  the  growing  belief  in  his 
guilt 

On  this  particular  day,  late  in  the  afternoon,  the 
Major  was  in  a  jovial  mood.  One  of  his  compan- 
ions had  been  recounting  the  peculiar  appearance  of  a 
witness  in  a  celebrated  trial.  After  he  had  finished, 
the  twinkle  in  the  Major's  eyes  foreshadowed  a  story, 
and  the  others,  observing  the  signal,  waited  expec- 
tantly. 

Before  he  could  begin,  however,  the  door  leading  to 
the  outer  office  was  opened  wide  enough  to  permit 
Betts,  the  Major's  confidential  clerk,  to  thrust  his 
head  into  the  aperture. 

"Well  ?"  the  Major  interrogated. 

"Lady  to  see  you,  sir." 

It  was  a  thin  voice,  like  the  tones  of  an  instrument 
out  of  repair  —  a  voice  heard  only  when  duty  made 
speech  necessary.  Betts  had  been  in  the  lawyer's  em- 
ploy for  many  years,  and  time  only  increased  the 
Major's  regard  for  his  sterling  worth.  The  clerk  was 
a  being  apart  from  ordinary  human  kind.  Unlike  any 
other  in  appearance  or  manner,  he  lived  within  him- 
self, and  no  man  could  say  he  knew  Daniel  Betts. 
Conscious  of  his  ill-favored  appearance,  he  believed 
that  nature  had  willed  that  he  be  not  like  other  men, 
nor  that  he  conform  to  the  ordinary  physiognomic 
law.  He  went  about  his  duties  silently,  seeking  no 
companionship,  content  with  his  work;  but  he  en- 


Pan  Cotmland,          37 

joyed  what  many  would  have  prized — the  absolute 
confidence  of  his  employer. 

"Tell  the  lady  I  will  see  her  presently,"  said  the 
Major  quietly. 

The  head  disappeared  and  the  door  closed. 

"I  haven't  heard  Betts  speak  for  a  month,  and  I 
have  been  here  nearly  every  day,"  remarked  one  of 
the  Major's  friends. 

"Good  man,  Betts,"  replied  the  Major.  "Don't 
know  how  I'd  get  on  without  him.  Of  course  he's  not 
handsome " 

"No,"  volunteered  another,  "no  sane  jury  would 
convict  him  of  it.  His  very  silence  makes  me  nerv- 
ous. Of  course  my  managing  clerk — 

"Yes,  we've  heard  him,"  came  the  reply  in  a 
chorus. 

Again  silence  fell  on  the  group,  to  listen  to  the 
Major's  story. 

As  he  finished,  Betts  opened  the  door,  his  head,  as 
before,  appearing  in  the  opening. 

"Lady  is  waiting,  sir." 

"  'Pon  my  word,  I  had  forgotten  all  about  her.  Say 
I'll  be  there  directly." 

The  head  disappeared.  The  Major  turned  to  his 
companions. 

"Sorry,  gentlemen.     Business,  you  know." 

"A  lady  waiting!  Major,  has  the  chivalry  for 
which  you  are  noted  deserted  you  ?  I  wonder  if  there 
was  a  lady  mixed  up  in  the  Harlan  affair  ?" 


"D'know,"  replied  the  Major,  his  countenance  in- 
stantly sobering,  "but,  unless  old  age  has  warped  my 
judgment,  that  young  man,  Malcolm,  is  no  more 
guilty  than  I  am." 

"There  is  a  tremendous  power  working  to  prove 
him  guilty." 

"So  I  understand.  The  entire  secret  service  is  en- 
rolled. Innocent  or  guilty,  short  of  a  miracle,  they 
will  convict  him." 

"There  is  money  being  used.  Barrels  of  it.  Who 
furnishes  it?" 

"That's  the  question.  Answer  it  and — well,  if  you 
don't  discover  the  guilty  one,  at  least  you  will  know 
who  desires  the  young  man's  conviction." 

"Gentlemen,  you  must  rely  on  your  own  endeav- 
ors for  entertainment.  Don't  hurry  away.  Nothing 
short  of  a  divorce  suit  will  detain  me  long." 

Smiling,  the  Major  went  into  the  front  office. 

Evelyn  Van  Courtland,  closely  veiled,  advanced  to 
meet  him.  Though  he  had  previously  met  her  at  her 
father's  house,  he  did  not  recognize  her. 

"May  I  see  you  alone  ?"  she  asked  in  a  low  voice. 

The  Major  led  the  way  to  a  private  office,  and, 
placing  a  chair,  invited  her  to  a  seat. 

As  she  removed  her  veil,  he  took  her  hand  in  his 
own,  and  looked  into  the  white  face. 

"Miss  Van  Courtland,  this  is  a  pleasure — yet  I 
fear  my  surprise  betrayed  me." 

A  faint  smile  lighted  up  her  features. 


OEtoelpn  l^an  Courtlantu          39 

"I  hardly  thought  you  would  recognize  me,"  she 
answered.  "I  am  here  to  consult  with  you;  to  be- 
come, in  a  measure,  your  client.  Your  daughter  was 
a  dear  friend  of  mine  at  boarding-school,  and  later  in 
college,  so  I  feel  as  if  I  had  always  known  you.  I 
must  place  myself,  as  well  as  the  matter  that  brings 
me  here,  unreservedly  in  your  hands,  relying  on  your 
honor  and  your  ability.  Will  you,"  she  asked,  look- 
ing into  the  kindly  eyes  that,  with  a  father's  intuitive- 
ness,  read  in  the  face  before  him  the  lines  that  recent 
suffering  had  left,  "will  you  accept  me  as  a  client  ?" 

"Most  assuredly,"  was  his  quick  rejoinder. 

"Without  questioning  my  motives  ?" 

"Yes,"  he  replied,  smiling  indulgently  at  the  ear- 
nestness of  the  speaker.  "You  see,"  he  continued, 
"we,  who  might  be  termed  lawyers  of  a  school  that  is 
fast  dying  out,  take  these  things  less  seriously  than 
you  young  people.  Did  I  not  know  that  a  trivial 
matter  would  not  move  you  so  deeply,  I  would  be  in- 
clined to  wonder  at  your  seriousness.  Now,  let  us  see 
how  I  can  be  of  assistance  ?" 

"There  is  a  young  man,"  she  said,  a  tremor  in  her 
voice,  "accused  of  the  murder  of  the  late  Mr.  Harlan. 
I  wish  to  employ  you  to  defend  him." 

The  Major's  complete  mastery  over  his  emotions, 
the  seeming  impossibility  of  taking  him  by  surprise, 
had,  since  the  beginning  of  his  brilliant  career,  been 
a  subject  of  admiration  and  wonder.  ~No  one  could 
truthfully  say  he  had  ever  seen  him  excited ;  and  the 


40          OEtoelpn  $an  Courtlantu 

adverse  verdict  of  a  jury,  or  a  personal  attack  by  op- 
posing counsel,  was  met  by  the  same  quizzical  smile 
with  which  he  might  receive  the  extravagant  words 
of  praise  that  followed  his  success.  But  as  he  listened 
to  Evelyn's  request,  when  she  mentioned  Harlan's 
name,  his  placid  smile  gave  place  to  an  expression  of 
astonishment 

For  some  moments  neither  spoke.  Directing  a 
questioning  glance  at  the  face  before  him,  he  tried  to 
read  therein  the  answer  to  the  surmises  her  request 
had  aroused.  He  had  known  Harlan  for  many  years, 
and  long  before  the  man's  death  he  had  heard  his 
name  connected  with  that  of  Howard  Van  Court- 
land's  wife.  Now  before  him  sat  Van  Courtland's 
daughter,  asking  him  to  defend  the  man  accused  of 
Harlan's  murder.  With  legal  acumen,  his  mind 
leaped  from  one  conclusion  to  another,  until  some- 
thing like  a  tangible  chain  presented  itself — conjec- 
tures only,  yet  in  after  years,  when  time  disclosed 
the  facts,  he  marveled  how  closely  he  had  guessed  the 
truth. 

What  had  she  to  do  with  the  tragedy,  he  mused. 
What  was  the  part  she  was  to  play?  Long  experi- 
ence had  made  acute  his  gift  of  divining  the  thoughts 
and  emotions  of  those  with  whom  he  came  in  contact 
It  was  this  marvelous  gift,  together  with  his  enticing, 
confiding  smile,  that  had  led  unwary  witnesses,  un- 
dergoing examination,  into  many  a  hopeless  maze  of 
contradictions.  The  face  of  the  ordinary  human  be- 


CourtlanD,          At 

ing  told  the  keen-eyed  lawyer  more  than  tongue  dis- 
closed— the  shifting  of  the  eye,  each  line  of  the  face 
told  its  tale.  But  the  glance  that  unfalteringly  met 
his  betrayed  neither  fear,  agitation,  nor  the  emotion 
that  might  be  awakened  by  the  consciousness  that  she 
was  placing  herself  in  a  false,  even  a  dangerous  posi- 
tion. 

"She  will  disclose  only  so  much  as  pleases  her," 
thought  the  Major ;  "what  she  decides  shall  be  secret, 
no  one  will  ever  discover.  She's  an  extraordinary,  as 
well  as  a  beautiful,  girl — no,  woman — what  those 
eyes  veil  are  years  and  years  in  advance  of  her  age." 

The  Major  remained  silent,  apparently  in  deep 
thought.  In  reality,  he  was  trying  to  fathom  the 
mystery,  to  determine  what  interest  she  had  in  the 
life  of  the  man  accused  of  Harlan's  murder. 

"Well,"  said  Evelyn,  "is  it  so  difficult  to  come  to 
a  decision?" 

The  attorney  marveled  at  the  quiet  composure  of 
the  speaker,  at  her  tone,  which  was  that  of  one  who  is 
master  of  the  situation ;  but  the  low  musical  voice  re- 
called him  to  the  matter  that  had  brought  her  there. 

"No,"  he  answered,  a  touch  of  guilty  confusion  in 
his  manner.  To  himself  he  mused — "I  wonder  if  she 
is  more  successful  in  reading  character  than  I  am.  I 
feel  as  if  she  were  in  possession  of  every  secret  of  my 
life.  No,"  he  resumed,  in  answer  to  her  question, 
"but,  you  see,  each  case  of  prominence  that  comes 
before  an  attorney  affects  him  differently.  One  man 


42          Ctoelpn  ^an  CouttlanD, 

might  feel  crushed  by  the  honor,  another  by  the  fear 
that  he  might  lose  the  case ;  with  me — well,  I  will  ad' 
mit  that  I  am  somewhat  interested.  I  have  given 
some  thought  to  the  matter.  An  attorney  regards  a 
new  case,  especially  if  it  be  an  important  one,  much 
as  does  a  physician  who  meets  new  and  strange  symp- 
toms in  a  patient.  Professional  curiosity  is  aroused. 
In  regard  to  Malcolm,  I  hardly  know  what  to  think ; 
in  fact,  I  have  not  dared  entertain  an  opinion." 

The  speaker's  eyes  were  still  riveted  on  her  face; 
he  was  talking  to  gain  time,  and  to  further  judge  his 
listener.  His  purpose  did  not  deceive  her.  A  faint 
smile  warned  the  Major  that  she  read  his  thought. 

"You  wish  to  know  my  interest  in  this  sad  affair," 
she  said,  her  smile  changing  into  an  expression  of  ear- 
nestness. "That  I  cannot  disclose.  I  will  state  to 
you  very  briefly  my  purpose,  but  I  cannot  tell  you  the 
motives  that  influence  me  in  wishing  to  retain  you.  I 
have  never  seen  the  accused  man ;  I  only  know  that  hs 
was  in  my  father's  employ.  Further  than  that  I  can- 
not explain.  Enough  that  I  wish  every  effort  made 
to  clear  him  of  this  charge.  There  is  only  one  condi- 
tion that  I  demand,  should  you  decide  to  undertake 
his  defense — you  and  I  alone  are  to  know  who  is 
moving  in  his  behalf.  Your  word  will  suffice.  I  be- 
lieve, during  my  grandmother's  illness,  you  acted  as 
her  legal  adviser.  By  her  will  I  was  made  independ- 
ent. Say  you  will  defend  Mr.  Malcolm,  and  draw  on 
me  for  any  sum  you  please." 


OEtoelpn  $an  CourtlanD*          43 

The  Major  raised  a  deprecating  hand.  At  that 
moment  money  was  far  from  his  thoughts. 

"Tell  me  more  of  the  case,  of  what  you  know  of  it ; 
also  I  must  have  some  authority  to  present  myself  to 
the  young  man  as  his  counsel." 

She  shook  her  head  sadly. 

"I  can  tell  you  nothing.  I  dare  say  you  know 
more  of  the  unfortunate  affair  than  I  do.  Surely  a 
man  in  Mr.  Malcolm's  predicament  would  welcome 
you  gladly.  But  he  must  never  know  who  furnished 
the  means.  You  will  consent  to  defend  him,  will  you 
not?" 

Her  tone,  which  she  made  no  effort  to  disguise, 
was  one  of  entreaty. 

"I  will  gladly  undertake  his  defense,"  he  replied, 
"assuming,  of  course,  that  Malcolm  will  accept  me  as 
his  counsel.  From  the  first  I  have  felt  a  strong  in- 
terest in  the  young  man,  together  with  a  firm  belief 
in  his  innocence.  I  am,  however,  of  the  opinion  that 
his  reticence  has  prejudiced  his  case.  As  for  your  in- 
terest, your  motives — 

He  paused  abruptly  and  again  fell  to  studying  her 
features,  as  if  expecting  to  find  there  an  answer  to  his 
thoughts. 

"Trust  me,"  she  said,  rising,  and  arranging  the  veil 
over  her  face,  "trust  me.  There  is  nothing  that  I 
could  tell  you  that  might  be  of  assistance — only  let  no 
obstacle  that  money  can  remove  stand  in  the  way  of 
your  success.  Use  my  means  freely,  lavishly,  if  need 


44          OEtoelpn  $an  CourtlanD* 

be.  Should  you  wish  to  consult  with  me,  I  think  it 
safer  that  you  write — my  visits  here  may  cause  com- 
ment. Good-night,  Major.  Allow  me  to  thank  you 
for  your  kindness." 

She  held  out  a  daintily  gloved  hand.  Leading  the 
way  to  the  door,  he  bade  her  a  fatherly  good-night. 

When  she  had  gone  he  threw  himself  into  an  easy 
chair,  and  Betts,  who  was  still  at  work,  was  startled 
by  a  prolonged  whistle.  This  was  followed  by  silence, 
broken  only  by  the  turning  of  the  leaves  of  a  huge 
ledger  on  which  he  was  working. 

"Call  up  the  Tombs,  Betts,  and  ask  if  Malcolm,  the 
man  accused  of  the  Harlan  murder,  will  see  me  to- 
night." 

Betts  delivered  the  message  with  his  customary 
precision,  his  language  as  methodical  as  were  his 
movements. 

"He  will  see  you,"  he  said,  in  a  voice  that  was 
never  known  to  depart  from  a  subdued  monotone,  "at 
any  hour  you  may  find  it  convenient  to  call." 

"Very  well,  Betts,  it  is  time  for  you  to  go  for  the 
night.  I  will  close  the  office." 

The  clerk  did  not  reply.  Taking  his  hat  from  the 
rack,  after  carefully  brushing  it,  and  as  carefully  ar- 
ranging the  folds  of  his  coat,  with  solemn  gravity  he 
went  into  the  hall,  noiselessly  closing  the  door  be- 
hind him. 

"He's  a  mighty  good  man,"  mused  the  Major  when 
alone,  "but  at  times  his  confounded  calm  jars  on  me. 


CotmlanD,          45 

If  the  building  were  on  fire,  I  believe  he'd  finish  foot- 
ing up  a  column  of  figures,  should  he  happen  to  be  en- 
gaged on  his  books,  before  the  thought  of  his  own 
safety  would  occur  to  him.  Even  then  he  would  wait 
to  brush  his  coat.  But  I  couldn't  get  on  without  him. 
Now  for  Malcolm.  If  I  am  no  more  successful  with 
him  than  with  the  remarkable  young  woman  who  has 
just  left  me,  I  may  as  well  conclude  that  I  am  to 
fight  the  Government  unaided.  I  prefer,  however,  a 
client  who  refuses  to  help  me,  to  one  who  talks  into 
the  hands  of  the  other  side.  If  I  could  even  guess  the 
motive  for  Malcolm's  foolhardy  reticence,  it  might 
clear  up  the  matter.  If  I  knew  what  Howard  Van 
Courtland's  daughter  knows,  I  could  without  a  doubt 
win  the  case.  What  a  charming  young  woman  she  is ; 
but  the  most  extraordinary  person  I  ever  met." 

An  hour  later  he  stood  face  to  face  with  Malcolm. 
They  were  a  striking  pair :  one  in  the  fulness  of  man- 
hood, hair  touched  with  silver,  eyes  that  advancing 
years  had  not  dimmed,  cheeks  to  which  the  rich  blood 
lent  the  color  of  youth,  his  step  and  carriage  those  of 
a  man  twenty  years  his  junior.  The  other,  either 
from  lack  of  exercise,  or  because  of  mental  depres- 
sion, was  slightly  pale,  but  this  only  added  a  touch  of 
distinction  to  his  features.  He  was  of  athletic  build. 
Long  training,  and  a  love  of  out-door  exercise,  had 
given  to  his  movements  an  easy  grace.  His  well- 
shaped  head  and  sturdy  neck  gave  him  the  appear- 
ance of  one  whose  strength  was  yet  untested;  the 


46          OEtoelpn  l^an  Courtlantu 


eves  and  the  under  jaw  proclaimed  even  to  the  casual 
observer  a  man  of  unusual  will  power.  Even  in  re- 
pose there  was  a  smiling,  devil-may-care  expression 
on  his  features,  to  which  the  animation  of  speech  lent 
an  added  charm.  The  personal  appearance  of  the 
young  man,  who,  in  the  dim  light  of  the  cell,  made 
a  striking  picture,  appealed  to  the  lawyer.  He 
warmed  to  him,  and  advanced  with  outstretched 
hand. 

"We  have  never  met  before,  I  believe  ?" 

"Not  to  my  knowledge,"  Malcolm  replied,  taking 
the  proffered  hand. 

"You  have  a  grip  of  iron,"  the  Major  laughingly 
rejoined.  "Prison  fare  doesn't  seem  to  affect  your 
muscle." 

"Not  at  all.  Never  felt  better.  Getting  so  I  rather 
enjoy  it" 

"Here,"  mused  the  Major,  as  he  closely  scanned  the 
pallid  face,  "here  is  a  new  character  in  my  varied  ex- 
perience. I'll  have  trouble  with  this  chap.  Not 
physically,  but  what  a  magnificent  giant  he  is!" 
Then  aloud  : 

"Now  to  business  -  " 

"My  dear  Major,"  Malcolm  laughingly  interrupt- 
ed, "I  intend  no  disrespect,  but  the  thought  of  em- 
ploying a  lawyer  of  your  prominence  is  quite  too 
touch.  Why,  I  haven't  enough  money  to  —  well,  I 
might  engage  you  for  an  hour  at  your  regular  rate." 


CourtlanD,          47 

Again  he  laughed,  softly  this  time,  with  just  the 
slightest  touch  of  bitterness. 

The  Major  was  not  impatient.  Waiting  until  the 
laugh  subsided,  he  calmly  surveyed  his  future  client 
for  a  full  half  minute. 

"Suppose  we  eliminate  the  question  of  a  fee,  would 
you  then  accept  me  as  your  counsel  ?" 

Malcolm  did  not  immediately  reply.  He  looked  at 
his  visitor  in  evident  astonishment.  Attorneys  of  the 
Major's  prominence,  he  knew,  were  not,  ordinarily, 
volunteering  their  services,  especially  in  cases  that 
gave  little  promise  of  remuneration. 

"I  can't  quite  understand —    "  he  began. 

"It  isn't  at  all  necessary  that  you  should  under- 
stand," the  Major  interrupted.  "Look  here,  young 
man,  your  position  is  not  at  all  an  enviable  one.  You 
require  counsel.  Will  you,  or  will  you  not,  accept 
my  services  ?  My  reputation  at  the  bar  is,  I  trust,  a 
sufficient  endorsement." 

"Major,  I  am  overwhelmed  by  your  offer,  but  the 
cost  must  be  considered." 

"Not  at  all.  That  question,  as  I  before  stated,  we 
will  not  discuss." 

The  two  men  looked  at  each  other  for  some  mo- 
ments, each  bent  on  discovering  the  motives  that  in- 
fluenced the  other,  while  each  was  fully  aware  that  he 
was  the  object  of  searching,  suspicious  inquiry.  Each 
was  conscious  of  his  lack  of  candor;  and,  like  chess 
players,  or  legal  opponents,  were  watching  for  an 


48          Ctoelptt  $an  Cotmlatttu 

opening  or  sign  of  weakness.  Malcolm  was  not  ready 
to  accept  the  Major's  half-truth — that  personal  inter- 
est alone  prompted  him  to  offer  his  services.  He  had 
quickly  come  to  the  conclusion  that  the  attorney  was 
to  be  paid ;  and  it  was  quite  as  obvious  that  he,  him- 
self, was  not  expected  to  demand  information.  He, 
too,  had  a  condition  to  exact — a  condition  that  might 
end  all  professional  relations  between  them. 

"Allow  me,"  he  said  abruptly,  "to  make  a  proposi- 
tion, or  rather  a  statement.  If,  after  hearing  it,  you 
still  offer  to  defend  me,  then,"  a  smile  lighted  up  his 
features,  "I'll  thank  heaven  for  sending  you  to  my 
aid.  It  is  this :  I  can  give  you  little  or  no  assistance 
in  this  terrible  affair,  only  the  assurance  that  I  am  not 
guilty;  nor  can  I  furnish  you  with  further  informa- 
tion in  regard  to  Harlan's  death  than  has  already 
been  stated  in  the  papers.  As  you  know,  I  had  a 
midnight  interview  with  the  unfortunate  man.  When 
I  left  him  he  was  alive ;  how  he  met  his  death  is  as 
great  a  mystery  to  me  as  it  is  to  you.  Now  if  you 
care  to  undertake  my  defence,  believe  me  I  shall  be 
truly  grateful." 

His  voice  was  earnest,  and  carried  conviction ;  but 
it  also  confirmed  the  lawyer's  previous  opinion — he 
could  look  for  no  help  from  his  prospective  client. 
That  Malcolm  was  withholding  information  which, 
could  he  be  induced  to  disclose  it,  might  be  an  abso- 
lute defense,  was  apparent;  but  one  glance  at  the 
speaker  convinced  him  that  his  will  would  not  bend. 


$an  Courtlantu          49 

Some  powerful  motive  impelled  the  accused  man, 
of  that  the  other  was  satisfied,  but  he  had  little  pa- 
tience or  sympathy  to  extend  to  one  who,  to  uphold 
a  fanciful  or  a  romantic  notion,  would  literally  court 
death.  He  realized  the  difficulty  of  the  task  before 
him ;  he  must  depend  upon  his  own  efforts.  But  non- 
success  in  eliciting  the  confidence  of  his  client  tended 
only  to  arouse  his  spirit  of  battle.  Instantly  he  was 
the  cross-examiner,  before  whom  many  an  over-con- 
fident witness  had  found  his  Waterloo. 

"You  visited  Harlan's  home  at  midnight?"  he 
asked. 

"Yes,"  came  the  terse  reply. 

"You  had  an  interview  with  him  ?" 

"Yes." 

The  Major  met  the  speaker's  glance  to  measure  the 
effect  of  the  next  question. 

"What  was  the  subject  of  that  interview  ?" 

A  slight  flush  stole  over  Malcolm's  face. 

"I  have  been  expecting  that  question,"  he  said  in  a 
calm,  courteous  tone,  "and  it  is  here  that  our  relations 
as  client  and  attorney  may  end.  I  cannot  answer 
it." 

He  bravely  met  the  Major's  eyes ;  nor  did  the  scowl 
of  disappointment  disconcert  him. 

"Young  man,"  the  Major's  tone  betrayed  his  feel- 
ing, "do  you  know  you  are  toying  with  a  noose  that 
may  fasten  about  your  neck  ?" 

"I  fully  appreciate  my  position." 


50          dftjelpn  $an  CouttlanD* 


"If  you  were  as  conscious  of  your  foolhardiness,  it 
would  be  an  easier  matter  to  handle  your  case." 
Again  the  Major  returned  to  the  attack.  "You  were 
the  last  person  known  to  be  with  Harlan  be/fore  his 
death?" 

"That  I  only  know  by  current  report.  The  last 
person  with  him  was,  no  doubt,  his  assailant." 

"Have  you  any  reason  to  know  or  to  suspect  who 
that  person  was  ?" 

A  very  faint  movement  of  the  muscles,  an  uncon- 
scious knitting  of  the  brow,  an  air  of  assumed  sur- 
prise, all  of  which,  to  the  casual  observer,  would 
have  passed  unnoticed,  was  the  unconscious  evidence 
that  the  attorney  was  seeking.  The  Major  had 
scored. 

"Em!"  he  ejaculated  between  closed  teeth. 

Again  they  mentally  measured  each  other.  Were 
Malcolm  a  Government  witness  in  open  court,  swear- 
ing away  the  life  of  the  Major's  client,  the  attorn*.  -\ 
would  not  have  returned  to  the  combat  with  keener 
zest. 

"There  was  no  quarrel  ?"  he  asked  sharply. 

"No." 

"You  parted  with  him  amicably  ?" 

"Quite  so." 

"And  you  last  saw  him  —  where  ?" 

"That  I  can  answer  with  perfect  candor:  on  the 
piazza  of  his  house,  before  1  left  him  to  return 
home." 


CoimlattD.          si 

"What  took  place  on  the  piazza  ?" 

"Simply  a  leave  taking.  He  shook  my  hand  and 
bade  me  good-night" 

"Now,"  began  the  Major,  in  measured  tones,  "after 
you  had  taken  leave  of  Harlan  you  went  directly 
home  ?" 

"Yes." 

The  color  again  mounted  to  Malcolm's  cheek.  He 
anticipated  the  next  question,  and  a  slight  movement 
of  irritation  did  not  escape  the  Major. 

"After  leaving  Harlan's  home " 

The  speaker  got  no  further.  With  an  imperative 
gesture,  with  eyes  that  flashed  the  intelligence  that  the 
line  had  been  reached  where  confidence,  even  infor- 
mation, ceased,  Malcolm  replied: 

"Major  Strong,  from  the  moment  I  left  the  house, 
my  connection  with  Mr.  Harlan  ceased.  My  inno- 
cence or  guilt  must  be  proved  by  what  took  place  be- 
fore that  time,  not  after.  Do  not  look  upon  me  as  an 
ingrate ;  believe  me,  I  fully  appreciate  the  effort  you 
would  make  in  my  behalf.  But — I  told  you  I  had  a 
condition  to  exact  before  you  decided  to  undertake  my 
defense.  You  now  know  it.  From  the  moment  I  bade 
Marshall  Harlan  good-night,  my  connection  with  him 
ended.  Regarding  my  subsequent  movements  no  man 
has  a  right  to  question  me." 

The  voice  was  firm.  The  finely  formed  head,  in 
an  unconscious  attitude  of  defiance,  was  thrown 
slightly  back.  At  that  moment  he  made  a  formidable 


52          (Gfteln  pan  CourtlanB* 


picture  —  that  of  outraged  manhood  on  the  defensive, 
yet  ready  for  the  attack.  The  Major's  eyes  betrayed 
his  admiration  ;  then  the  feeling  gave  place  to  one  of 
resentment 

"You  talk  like  a  child,"  was  his  unsympathetic  re- 
tort. "Do  you  believe  that  a  jury  will  entertain  any 
such  romantic  twaddle?  Think  of  your  position. 
You  will  be  on  trial  for  your  life  !" 

"I  believe  in  justice  —  in  the  ultimate  triumph  of 
right." 

"Justice  —  right!  Our  books  are  full  of  such 
terms.  Evidence  is  what  our  courts  insist  on  having. 
I  am  satisfied  you  are  withholding  it." 

The  lawyer's  customary  calmness  was  fast  disap- 
pearing. Their  brief  interview  had  convinced  him 
that  he  had  met  his  equal.  Stratagem  alone  could  be 
relied  on.  He  was  irritated  by  his  failure  to  force 
Malcolm  to  disclose  what  he  knew,  or  to  discover 
even  a  clue  upon  which  to  build  his  defense.  His 
professional  pride  had  received  a  humiliating  shock, 
and,  with  a  show  of  resentment,  which  he  made  no 
effort  to  disguise,  he  prepared  to  go.  Malcolm 
watched  his  movements,  and  an  expression  of  en- 
treaty shone  in  his  eyes. 

"You  are  going  ?"  he  asked. 

"Yes,"  the  Major  tartly  rejoined,  "with  no  more 
information  than  I  possessed  before  I  came.  Young 
man,  if  you  want  an  attorney  to  defend  you,  you 
must  learn  one  very  important  maxim  —  confide  in 


$an  CourtlanD*          53 

him.  I  shall  not  come  again  until  you  awake  to  that 
very  necessary  condition.  When  you  have  relented 
you  may  send  for  me." 

His  voice  was  harsh.  As  he  neared  the  door,  and 
was  about  to  go,  Malcolm's  voice  arrested  him. 

"You  believe  me  innocent?"  he  asked  in  a  quiet 
tone. 

"Yes,"  the  Major  answered  with  savage  emphasis. 

"Then,"  the  words  and  tone  almost  prophetic,  "it 
is  you  who  will  relent.  You  will  come  of  your  own 
will,  for  you  believe  me — I  feel  it,  I  know  it.  And 
you  will  defend  me,  Major,  and  clear  me  of  this 
charge." 

Making  an  effort  to  hide  his  chagrin,  the  Major 
held  out  his  hand,  which  Malcolm  grasped.  Without 
further  speech  he  went  out,  and  the  iron  door  clanged 
after  him. 


54          caelpn  $an  CoimianD* 


CHAPTER  V. 

THE  shadow  of  the  tragedy  had  settled  over  the 
home  of  the  Van  Courtlands.  Mrs.  Van  Courtland 
had  gone  South  for  a  prolonged  stay,  and  the  banker, 
to  meet  the  requirements  their  social  position  de- 
manded, as  well  as  to  counteract  any  ill-natured  gos- 
sip, allowed  no  interruption  to  his  customary  mode  of 
life.  Each  day  at  the  usual  hour  he  went  to  his  place 
of  business,  refusing  to  see  anyone  except  his  most  in- 
timate associates,  remaining  for  hours  alone  in  his 
private  office,  taciturn,  moody,  and,  what  was  most 
unusual,  betraying  a  highly  nervous  state. 

To  Evelyn,  as  well  as  to  his  close  friends,  Howard 
Van  Courtland  was  a  changed  man.  Doubt,  dread, 
at  times  even  fear,  seemed  to  have  taken  possession  of 
him — each  emotion  being  reflected  in  the  colorless 
face,  to  be  in  turn  supplanted  by  a  look  of  entreaty, 
amounting  to  abject  terror.  Evidence  of  these  feel- 
ings, whatever  their  cause,  was  noticeable  only  when 
he  was  alone,  or  when  he  belived  himself  unobserved ; 
for  at  the  sound  of  a  voice  or  of  an  approaching 
footstep,  his  appearance  underwent  a  change,  his  face 
resumed  its  former  expression,  and  in  voice  and 
manner  he  was  again  the  successful  man  of  the  world. 


Ctoelptt  $att  CourtlattD.          55 

There  was  one  he  did  not  deceive.  Without  ex- 
citing his  suspicion,  Evelyn  watched  him  closely  as 
she  noticed  his  changed  appearance.  Loss  of  sleep, 
together  with  little  or  no  food,  was  leaving  its  stamp 
on  face  and  form.  His  step  was  uncertain,  his  eye 
lusterless,  his  general  appearance  that  of  one  com- 
pletely broken  in  health  and  spirit.  This  Evelyn  at- 
tributed partly  to  his  fear  that  her  mother's  past  rela- 
tions with  Harlan  had  become  a  matter  of  public 
gossip.  She  could  not  understand,  nor  did  she  fully 
appreciate,  the  strain  under  which  her  father  was 
laboring.  Yet  she  was  conscious  that,  though  he 
made  every  effort  to  hide  from  her  his  true  condition, 
he  was  suffering  mental  agony.  Often,  awakening 
from  a  fitful  sleep  in  the  early  morning  hours,  she 
could  hear  his  step  as  he  walked  the  floor  of  his  room 
— the  sound  filling  her  with  nervous  dread. 

A  week  after  her  mother's  departure  she  was  vain- 
ly trying  to  read,  to  compose  her  nerves  and  induce 
sleep.  It  was  long  after  midnight.  She  listened  to  the 
sound  of  her  father's  footfalls,  varied  by  low  mutter- 
ings,  disjointed,  rambling  sentences  followed  by  loud, 
threatening  tones,  all  of  which  filled  her  with  alarm. 
Stealthily  she  crept  to  his  door,  but  the  few  intelli- 
gible words  that  reached  her  hearing  sent  her,  trem- 
bling, back  to  her  room,  her  heart  and  brain  throb- 
bing in  an  agony  of  fear.  Throwing  herself  upon  a 
couch  she  lay  quite  still,  while  the  sound  of  the  foot- 
falls, followed  by  outbursts  of  passion,  continued. 


56          (Etoelpn  Pan  Courtland, 


Unable  longer  to  remain  inactive,  she  again  went  into 
the  hall  and  rapped  gently  on  the  door  of  his  room. 

"Are  you  ill,  father  ?"  she  asked  falteringly. 

"No,  no,  Evelyn,  dear.  Why  are  you  awake  at 
this  hour  ?  I  have  a  slight  headache,  that's  all.  Go 
back  to  bed,  child." 

Evelyn  returned  to  her  room,  and  the  sounds 
ceased. 

"Did  I  disturb  you  ?"  her  father  asked  the  follow- 
ing morning  at  breakfast. 

"I  feared  you  were  not  well,"  she  replied,  evading 
his  glance.  "I  thought,  perhaps,  you  might  need 
me." 

"A  slight  nervous  attack,"  he  calmly  replied.  "I 
think  I  will  have  a  bed  placed  in  the  study.  My  old 
fits  of  insomnia  have  returned,  and  I  would  be  more 
at  ease  on  this  floor;  besides,  it  adjoins  the  library 
and,  should  I  feel  unable  to  sleep,  I  could  read." 

Evelyn  offered  no  objection  or  comment  Glancing 
at  the  haggard  countenance,  she  shuddered. 

"Do  you  really  believe  you  would  be  more  com- 
fortable on  this  floor?"  she  asked,  after  a  moment's 
thought,  "you  would  be  so  entirely  alone  ?" 

"Yes,"  he  responded,  brightening,  "I  wonder  I 
didn't  think  to  make  the  change  before." 

"Could  you  not  have  James  sleep  in  the  library? 
He  would  be  within  call  should  you  need  him  ?" 

"No,  no,"  he  protested  excitedly.  There  was  ter- 
ror in  his  voice.  Recovering  himself,  he  continued  in 


CourtlanO*          5? 

a  calmer  tone :  "I  would  not  require  him.  You  know, 
child,  when  one  is  a  trifle  worked-out,  tired,  or  a  bit 
nervous,  there  is  nothing  so  restful  for  one  of  my  age 
as  to  realize  one  is  absolutely  alone."  He  made  an  at- 
tempt to  laugh  that  grated  on  the  nerves  of  the  lis- 
tener, it  so  nearly  approached  a  groan.  "You  can- 
not appreciate  that  condition.  Yes/'  with  childish 
enthusiasm,  "we  will  have  a  bed  moved  into  the  study, 
dear ;  then  I  know  I  shall  sleep." 

There  were  dark  circles  under  his  eyes,  which  the 
grayish  pallor  of  his  face  intensified.  He  had  been 
making  but  slight  pretense  of  eating.  Pushing  his 
plate  from  him,  he  drank  his  coffee,  then  motioned  to 
the  servant  to  pour  another  cup.  Asking  his  daugh- 
ter if  she  would  be  helped  to  more,  he  nodded  to  the 
servant  to  retire. 

When  they  were  alone,  he  leaned  back  in  his  chair. 
His  shifting  glance  wandered  about  the  room.  He 
seemed  strangely  disturbed  and  spoke  abruptly. 

"Though  it  is  a  disagreeable  subject,  Evelyn,  I 
feel  I  should  speak  of  Harlan's  death,  and  what  they 
are  doing  to  bring  about  a  speedy  trial  of  young  Mal- 
colm." 

Had  Van  Courtland  been  entirely  sane,  and  ordi- 
narily observant,  he  could  not  have  failed  to  note  the 
deathly  color  of  the  face  before  him,  nor  to  see  the 
bosom  of  the  young  girl  rise  and  fall.  Her  heart  beat 
tumultuously,  her  breath  came  in  short  gasps,  until 
she  feared  she  would  betray  herself.  His  mind 


58          Ctoelptt  $an  CourtlanD, 

seemed  entirely  absorbed  in  the  subject  he  was  dis- 
cussing ;  his  eyes  glowed  with  feverish  brilliancy ;  for 
the  moment  he  was  but  dimly  conscious  that  he  had  a 
listener. 

"You  see,  my  dear,"  there  was  a  note  of  abstrac- 
tion in  his  voice,  "since  Harlan's  death,  and  the  un- 
happy events  following  it,  we  have  been  very  much 
alone.  This  is  not  good  for  you — for  one  so  young. 
We  should  go  more  into  society — receive  our  friends 
oftener.  This  sort  of  life  is  too  dull — too  monot- 
onous." 

Evelyn  was  about  to  expostulate,  to  assure  him  she 
was  content  with  the  quiet  of  their  home  life. 

"I  know,  I  know,  my  dear,"  he  interrupted  with 
childlike  petulance,  "but  I  am  the  best  judge  of  this 
matter.  Besides,  your  mother's  absence" — it  was  the 
first  time  he  had  referred  to  his  wife  since  her  de- 
parture— "might  occasion  unpleasant  gossip  if  we 
ignore  the  duty  we  owe  to  society.  Have  you  seen 
Mr.  Le  Moyne  recently  ?"  he  asked  abruptly,  his  tone 
and  manner  changing. 

Evelyn  replied  in  the  negative. 

"Very  bright  young  man,"  he  exclaimed,  his  eyes 
lighting  up  with  new  interest,  his  animation  in 
marked  contrast  to  his  dejected  manner  of  a  few  mo- 
ments before.  "He  has  the  Malcolm  case  well  in 
hand.  We  must  see  more  of  him,  my  dear,  and  it 
will  please  me  if,  when  you  meet  him,  you  manifest 
some  interest  in  the  young  man." 


$an  CourtlanD*          so 

Without  replying  to  her  father's  request,  with  the 
plea  that  she  was  suffering  from  a  slight  headache, 
Evelyn  rose  hastily  and  went  to  her  room. 

That  night  Evelyn  and  her  father  were  to  attend  a 
reception,  at  the  home  of  one  of  Van  Courtland's 
business  associates.  They  were  certain  to  meet  there 
people  prominent  in  the  social  and  literary  world — a 
set  in  which  Van  Courtland  was  one  of  the  leaders. 
Since  Harlan's  death  Van  Courtland  had  manifested 
a  feverish  desire  to  appear  in  public,  and,  much  to  his 
daughter's  chagrin,  insisted  that  she  accompany  him. 
She  could  not  understand  his  moods.  Since  her 
mother's  departure,  and  the  unfortunate  occurrence 
leading  up  to  it,  she  shrank  from  meeting  her  former 
friends.  The  necessity  of  assuming  an  outward  show 
of  interest,  which  she  did  not  feel,  while  listening 
to  comments  on  the  Harlan  affair,  that  was  so  closely 
allied  to  the  tragedy  in  her  own  home,  annoyed  and 
humiliated  her.  Yet  by  neither  word  nor  sign  did 
she  betray  unusual  interest  or  a  disinclination  to  hear 
the  subject  discussed.  She  listened  with  a  consider- 
ate show  of  sympathy,  and  not  till  she  had  returned 
to  her  own  home,  and  to  the  seclusion  of  her  room, 
did  she  betray  the  strain  under  which  she  was  labor- 
ing. Only  by  a  determined  will  power  was  she  able 
to  hide  her  true  feelings ;  but  she  had  little  fear  that 
her  father  would  notice  her  altered  appearance  and 
manner.  When  at  home,  he  moved  about  aimlessly, 
in  manner  and  speech  like  one  whose  mind  and  in- 


eo          OEtoelpn  l^an  Courtlantu 

terest  were  far  from  bis  immediate  surroundings.  If 
his  daughter  addressed  him,  with  a  start  he  would 
collect  his  wandering  faculties,  answer  her  at  ran- 
dom, or  open  a  topic  of  conversation  entirely  foreign 
to  her  remark  or  question. 

The  early  evening  found  them  at  the  Madison  man- 
sion— Van  Courtland  in  earnest  conversation  with 
his  host;  Evelyn,  almost  upon  her  entrance,  became 
the  center  of  a  laughing,  chattering  group  of  young 
people.  It  was  not  long,  however,  until,  with  a  sense 
of  relief,  she  saw  Le  Moyne  approaching.  She  held 
out  her  hand  in  greeting.  Gradually  the  others 
moved  away  and  left  them  alone.  Of  all  her  friends 
there  was  no  one  who,  at  that  moment,  she  would 
have  welcomed  more  gladly  than  the  brilliant  attor- 
ney. 

He  possessed  the  power  of  interesting  her,  for  he 
was  able  to  discuss  a  wide  range  of  subjects  with 
equal  facility.  Never  forcing  nor  intruding  his  own 
opinions,  he  was,  unlike  many  others  who  had  at- 
tained distinction  in  his  profession,  willing,  even 
eager,  to  listen  to  views  that  were  opposed  to  his  own. 

There  was  another  reason,  however,  why  Evelyn 
desired  to  talk  with  him.  The  subject  that  held  her 
attention  day  and  night,  her  interest  in  which  no  hu- 
man power  could  induce  her  to  disclose,  was  Mal- 
colm's coming  trial. 

Le  Moyne  had  a  complete  knowledge  of  the  Gov- 
ernment's case,  and  the  evidence  relied  on  to  convict 


Pan  Coimlantr*          ei 

the  accused  man.  From  the  newspapers  Evelyn  had 
learned  of  the  efforts  the  Government  was  making, 
and  her  father's  vague  allusions  had  convinced  her 
that  the  officers  of  the  Government  were  exhausting 
every  means  to  secure  a  conviction. 

The  young  attorney  was  a  man  of  the  highest  pro- 
fessional integrity,  and  Evelyn  realized  the  delicacy 
of  the  task  she  had  in  hand.  Her  glance  flashed  him 
a  welcome,  her  touch  thrilled  him,  until  his  eyes 
glowed  with  unaccustomed  elation.  She  felt  his 
power,  but  was  not  dismayed.  Her  mission  was  the 
acquittal  of  a  man  she  believed  innocent — a  man  she 
had  never  seen,  whose  antecedents  and  personal  worth 
were,  except  what  she  had  gathered  from  hearsay, 
unknown  to  her. 

"You  appear  particularly  amiable  to-night,"  he 
ventured,  as  he  led  her  to  a  seat,  "you  have  decided 
to  erase  the  memory  of  our  past  differences  of  opin- 
ion, and " 

"Start  all  over  from  the  beginning." 

"What !  renew  our  wordy  battles  ?  You  can't 
mean  it." 

She  laughed  quietly,  and  the  glance  she  threw  him 
might  have  made  any  lover's  heart  beat  with  expect- 
ancy. 

"Seriously  now,"  she  said  with  coquettish  aban- 
don, "I  shall  never  cease  attacking  your  professional 
heresy  until  I  whip  you  into  line.  Tell  me  of  this 
new  victim  of  your  duty  to  the  State." 


62          Ctoelpn  $an  CourtlanD. 

"You  refer  to  Malcolm  ?" 

"Yes;  of  course  Mr.  Harlan's  death  moved  us 
deeply." 

He  glanced  quickly  at  her,  but  her  features  dis- 
closed only  calm,  sympathetic  interest  Her  eyes 
sought  his  in  a  look  of  open  candor. 

His  habitual  caution  prompted  him  to  weigh  every 
word  he  uttered  when  his  profession  was  mentioned. 
Her  face  disclosed  neither  unusual  interest,  nor  a 
desire  for  knowledge  that  might  be  denied  her. 

"Is  she  acquainted  with  the  gossip  which  connects 
her  mother's  name  with  that  of  the  deceased  banker  ?" 
he  mused.  Then  aloud :  "I  feel  deeply  for  Malcolm," 
he  said,  regret  in  his  voice,  "he  was  a  classmate  of 
mine.  I  haven't  recovered  from  the  shock  of  his  con- 
nection with  the  unfortunate  affair." 

"You  don't  believe  he  committed  the  deed !" 

Her  eyes  were  on  his  face.  Her  assertion  was 
made  with  such  abruptness  that,  taken  by  surprise, 
he  colored  and  started  perceptibly.  The  evidence, 
however  slight,  that  her  shaft  had  moved  him,  did  not 
escape  her.  In  her  eyes  flashed  a  momentary  gleam 
of  light,  which  quickly  died.  Before  he  could  reply 
she  continued  calmly: 

"Of  course  my  only  source  of  information  is  the 
newspapers." 

"Circumstances,  I  regret  to  say,"  he  replied  in  a 
professional  tone,  "point  to  his  guilt.  He  is  strangely 


Pan  CourtlanD.          63 

silent,  neither  affirming  nor  denying  facts  that  tend 
to  incriminate  him." 

"You  have  not  answered  my  question,"  she  said 
playfully. 

"Which  one?"  he  asked,  smiling.  "Our  inter- 
course for  months  past  has,  on  your  part,  assumed  the 
aspect  of  one  continued  interrogation — mostly  con- 
cerning matters  in  which  women  in  general  take  but 
little  interest." 

His  tone  was  bantering.  Refusing  to  meet  the 
charge  by  a  direct  reply,  she  touched  his  hand  lightly 
with  the  soft  fluffy  texture  of  the  fan  she  held.  The 
blood  mounted  to  his  cheeks  and,  as  their  eyes  met,  his 
color  deepened.  She  was  in  a  mood  approaching  an 
intimacy  closer  than,  in  any  former  intercourse,  they 
had  ever  reached.  In  the  soft  light  she  was  strikingly 
beautiful,  and  her  manner,  playfully  tantalizing,  yet 
half  serious,  appealed  to  him  as  never  before.  Was 
she  aware  that  the  man  was  madly  in  love  with  her ; 
or  that  on  the  slightest  encouragement  he  would  de- 
clare his  passion  ?  Her  face  told  nothing ;  but  with  a 
quaint  little  gesture,  as  if  to  check  any  impulse  on 
his  part  that  might  lead  to  embarrassment,  she  non- 
chalantly asked  him: 

"You  are  to  try  the  case  for  the  Government?" 

"Yes,"  he  answered,  with  some  hesitation. 

"Notwithstanding  that  you  believe  him  innocent  ?" 

"My  dear  Miss  Van  Courtland,  I  have  not  ex- 


64          Cfcelpn  $an  Courtlantu 

pressed  an  opinion  as  to  Malcolm's  guilt  or  inno- 
cence !" 

"True,  but  you  need  not;  I  know  it" 

He  looked  into  the  eyes  that  laughed  into  his  own. 
She  held  his  glance. 

"As  I  told  you,  I  have  no  right  to  an  opinion." 

"Perhaps;  but  you  have  one,  nevertheless." 

"I  suppose,"  he  replied  musingly,  "because  of  your 
father's  past  relations  with  Harlan,  you  have  an  un- 
usual interest  in  the  case." 

"Exactly,  and  the  Government  is  exerting  itself  as 
never  before." 

Her  tone  had  unconsciously  become  shaded  with 
irony.  Then,  as  if  suddenly  becoming  conscious  of  a 
lapse  of  caution,  she  laughed  softly,  and  in  the  at- 
tempt to  emphasize  her  remark  by  a  touch  of  her  fan, 
their  hands  met.  The  touch  disconcerted  him,  and 
before  he  could  frame  a  reply,  she  asked  abruptly : 

"Should  Malcolm  be  declared  'not  guilty,'  is  there 
any  one  else  upon  whom  suspicion  rests  ?" 

"That,"  came  the  reply,  "I  can  answer  readily 
enough.  No.  Unfortunately  for  Malcolm,  he  is  the 
only  one  at  whom  suspicion  points." 

For  a  brief  instant  it  seemed  as  if  a  sigh  of  relief 
hovered  on  the  air ;  but  when  he  looked  quickly  at  her, 
he  met  only  a  calm  gaze  of  interest,  and  a  smile  that 
invited  confidence. 

"You  must  keep  me  informed  of  the  progress  you 
make  in  the  preparation  of  your  case,"  she  said,  while 


CouttlanD,          65 

she  made  a  fruitless  attempt  to  close  the  fan  she 
carried. 

Taking  the  fan  from  her,  without  apparent  effort 
he  closed  it;  then  made  a  pretense  of  looking  at  the 
exquisitely  carved  ivory  handle.  As  though  its  pos- 
session gave  him  the  right  of  common  ownership,  he 
seemed  loth  to  part  with  it  until,  holding  out  her  han-1 
to  receive  it,  her  white  fingers  closed  upon  his.  Tl;e 
touch  sent  the  blood  to  his  face,  his  fingers  tremble  1 
beneath  hers.  Not  daring  to  trust  his  voice,  he  re- 
mained silent.  She  was  the  first  to  speak. 

"You  once  told  me  I  had  a  legal  mind.  You  re- 
member?" He  nodded  in  response.  "And  I  will 
have  a  voice  to  advise  and  to  criticize,"  she  continued 
playfully,  "doesn't  that  sound  like  woman's  egot- 
ism?" 

She  laughed  while  she  felt  the  hand  shake  that  held 
the  fan.  Again  he  nodded  a  response,  but  remained 
passive,  speechless,  while  the  touch  of  her  fingers 
lingered  on  his  own. 

"It  is  a  bargain,  then,"  she  exclaimed,  a  slight 
pressure  emphasizing  her  remark. 

"Yes,"  he  murmured,  "may  I  keep  the  fan?" 

Her  answer  was  a  smile  of  acquiescence. 

He  touched  the  delicate  ivory  to  his  lips  where  her 
fingers  had  rested. 

"Keep  it  while  your  trust  in  me  lasts ;  should  you 
return  it,  I  shall  know  your  confidence  in  me  no 
longer  lives." 


66  OEtielpn  Van  Courtlmto, 

By  a  common  impulse  they  rose  and  walked  into 
the  drawing-room.  A  smile  lighted  up  their  features. 
His  face  reflected  hope  of  love  returned;  hers  the 
success  of  the  first  step  in  a  desperate  game — un- 
aided, alone.  She  had  begun  the  battle  for  a  human 
life.  Her  methods?  She  need  expect  no  quarter 
from  the  enemy ;  instinct  told  her  that  the  world  for- 
gives those  who  woo  it  with  success.  She  would,  she 
must,  conquer.  Conscience  ?  It  was  law,  man's  law, 
she  had  to  combat:  a  gigantic,  human  machine,  with 
all  of  man's  weaknesses,  autocratic,  all  powerful,  deal- 
ing justice  according  to  the  hand  that  guides  it.  Her 
motive  was  pure;  her  method  must  be  judged  by  a 
higher  court  She  was  a  woman.  Nature  endowed 
her  with  weapons  of  defense.  The  question  was  not 
one  of  their  possession,  but  of  her  use  of  them.  That 
question  time  alone  would  solve. 


Courtianto.          67 


CHAPTER  VI. 

THE  morning  of  the  third  day  following,  Van 
Courtland  met  his  daughter  at  breakfast.  With  her 
customary  gentleness,  Evelyn  inquired  if  he  had  slept 
well,  and  they  took  their  places  at  the  table.  Know- 
ing her  father's  aversion  to  anything  approaching 
sympathy,  she  made  no  reference  to  his  health;  but 
she  noted  his  increased  pallor.  As  if  to  divert  their 
thoughts  from  the  general  air  of  gloom,  that  seemed 
to  affect  even  the  servants,  they  made  an  effort  at 
conversation. 

"By  the  way,  Evelyn" — his  voice  was  pitched  un- 
naturally high — "I  have  invited  Mr.  Le  Moyne  to 
dine  with  us  to-night.  We  need  company.  He  is  a 
brilliant  young  man.  Besides,  he  is  prosecuting  at- 
torney, and  I  desire  an  opportunity  to  consult  with 
him." 

At  the  mention  of  Le  Moyne's  name,  Evelyn 
flushed. 

"You  will  not  mind,  dear  ?"  he  queried. 

"Quite  the  contrary.  I  shall  be  delighted,"  she  re- 
plied. 

Her  evident  interest  seemed  to  please  her  father, 
and  he  continued  with  animation. 


68  OEtoelpn  $an  CotmlanD, 

"I  am  glad  of  that.  He  is  very  clever.  They  tell 
me  he  rarely  loses  a  case." 

"If  one  may  measure  his  ability  by  his  success, 
praise  is  certainly  due  him." 

"Quite  so,  my  dear.  I — I  should  like  the  dinner  to 
be  something  out  of  the  ordinary.  Please  speak  to 
James ;  and,  my  dear,  order  some  flowers.  Don't  be 
sparing.  Have  everything  appear  bright." 

"I  shall  attend  to  it,"  she  replied  cheerily. 

With  misgiving  she  noted  her  father's  drawn  fea- 
tures, animated  by  a  nervous,  unnatural  desire  to  ap- 
pear unconcerned.  His  eyes  glowed  feverishly,  his 
whole  attitude  was  that  of  repressed  excitement 

The  remainder  of  the  day  Evelyn  devoted  to  seeing 
that  her  instructions  for  the  dinner  and  the  decora- 
tions of  the  dining-room  were  carefully  executed; 
and,  though  her  personal  supervision  was  unneces- 
sary, she  welcomed  the  diversion.  The  room  glowed 
with  color.  A  background  of  potted  palms  increased 
the  effect  of  the  cut  flowers,  a  pyramid  of  crimson 
roses,  banked  by  delicate  white  blossoms,  forming  the 
base  of  the  crimson  shaft.  The  scent  of  flower  and 
palm,  the  glow  of  light,  subdued,  yet  disclosing  un- 
suspected beauty  in  hidden  nooks  and  corners  of  the 
room,  thrilled  the  senses.  Evelyn's  touch  appeared 
everywhere,  for  she  possessed  an  inborn  love  for  the 
beautiful,  and  what  she  arranged  semed  to  disclose 
beauties  not  before  revealed. 

She  had  seen  much  of  the  world — the  leading  cities 


$an  CoimlanD*          69 

of  Europe  were  as  familiar  to  her  as  was  her  own 
birthplace.  It  was  not  art  alone  that  engrossed  her ; 
social  and  political  questions  appealed  to  her  sym- 
pathy and  interest.  Owing  to  her  mother's  indiffer- 
ence, she  had  enjoyed  a  personal  freedom  of  action 
that  gave  her  an  uncommon  knowledge  of  men  and 
things.  A  glance,  a  tone  of  voice,  disclosed  to  her,  as 
if  by  intuition,  what  others  might  learn  when  too  late 
— the  heart,  the  mind,  the  soul  of  their  owner.  Men 
admired  her  beauty,  but  paid  homage  to  her  intel- 
lect; without  even  the  shadow  of  a  contest,  women 
acknowledged  her  mental  supremacy. 

At  seven  o'clock  her  father,  accompanied  by  Le 
Moyne,  entered  the  drawing-room.  Glancing  about 
the  room,  his  eyes  gleamed  with  satisfaction. 

"Beautiful,"  Le  Moyne  remarked,  as  they  took 
their  places  at  the  table. 

His  one  word  had  reference  to  the  masses  of  flow- 
ers ;  but  his  eyes  were  fixed  on  Evelyn's  features  till 
her  increasing  color  warned  him  to  lower  his  glance. 

"You  are  late,  father,"  she  said,  wishing  to  direct 
Le  Moyne's  attention  from  herself. 

"I'm  sorry,  my  dear.  I  called  for  Mr.  Le  Moyne 
at  his  office  and — well,  we  had  to  discuss  a  matter  of 
importance." 

"My  fault  entirely,"  Le  Moyne  insisted,  again  al- 
lowing his  eyes  to  linger  in  unconscious  admiration 
on  her  face. 

Evelyn  was  attired  in  a  gown  of  soft,  delicate  ma- 


70          OEtielpn  i^an  CourtlanD* 

terial,  that  clung  in  wavy  folds  to  her  graceful  figure. 
She  wore  no  ornaments  except  at  her  throat,  her  col- 
lar being  fastened  by  a  magnificent  pearl,  set  in  a 
brooch,  around  which,  from  a  slender  hoop  of  rough 
gold,  flamed  a  circle  of  the  purest  white  diamonds. 

"Never  mind,  dear,  we  bring  appetites  as  a  recom- 
pense for  the  delay.  Le  Moyne,  try  a  little  Bur- 
gundy, some  of  my  own  importation.  I  will  answer 
for  its  age." 

They  raised  their  wine  glasses.  Under  the  exhila- 
ration of  the  dinner,  the  conversation  became  ani- 
mated. Van  Courtland's  features  underwent  a 
change — in  manner  and  speech  he  was  again  the  ideal 
host,  courteous,  considerate,  leading  his  guest  into  a 
full  enjoyment  of  the  moment,  while  he,  himself,  ap- 
peared to  be  the  one  entertained. 

"My  dear,  our  delay  was  occasioned  by  Mr.  Le 
Moyne  going  into  the  Malcolm  case  in  detail.  He 
has  most  convincing  proof  against  the  young  man. 
His  conviction  seems  a  certainty." 

Evelyn  turned  to  her  guest,  her  look  as  eloquent 
as  the  unspoken  words:  "Remember  our  agree- 
ment." 

Her  smile,  her  glance,  was  full  of  meaning;  it 
conveyed  to  him  the  assurance  of  a  closer  tie  between 
them.  He  understood;  his  color  deepened.  He  was 
thrilled  by  her  beauty ;  his  eyes  reflected  his  pleasure, 
his  gratitude,  and  conveyed  the  assurance  that  the 


t^att  Courtland*          n 

compact  of  their  last  meeting  was,  on  his  part,  to  be 
carried  out. 

"Knowing  my  interest,"  her  smile  was  for  Le 
Moyne,  though  she  addressed  her  father,  "he  will 
surely  not  withhold  the  details  of  his  progress  from 
me." 

"State  secrets,  my  dear.  The  Government  jeal- 
ously guards  its  information,  but " 

"Don't  you  think,  Mr.  Le  Moyne,  the  district  at- 
torney's office  would  consider  me  worthy  of  confi- 
dence ?" 

Again  the  enticing  smile,  and  an  answering  gleam 
of  pleasure  in  the  eyes  that  sought  hers. 

"I  fear  I  must  consent,"  he  replied.  "And  why 
not  ?  We  are  arrayed  together  on  the  side  of  the  Gov- 
ernment. Anyway,"  he  laughed,  "I  believe  you 
would  wring  the  facts  from  me,  so  I  may  as  well  con- 
sent. Do  you  think  it  safe?"  he  asked,  addressing 
Van  Courtland  with  mock  seriousness. 

"Quite  so,  quite  so,"  the  elder  man  answered. 

The  dessert  had  been  removed,  and  they  lingered 
over  the  coffee.  The  butler  and  the  servants  had  been 
dismissed;  and  Van  Courtland,  on  the  plea  that  he 
had  to  send  a  message  to  the  city,  excused  himself, 
leaving  Evelyn  to  entertain  their  guest 

"I  feared,"  she  said,  while  she  toyed  with  an 
empty  wine  glass,  "I  feared  you  had  forgotten  our 
agreement — that  your  trust  in  me  was  waning.  The 
memory  of  the  ordinary  man  is  fickle." 


72          OEtoelpn  pan  CourtlanB, 

"But  I  have  the  fan,"  he  naively  rejoined. 

She  laughed  softly;  then  raised  her  eyes  to  his 
face — eyes  in  which  subdued  excitement  and  eager 
anticipation  smouldered. 

Noting  no  false  ring  in  her  voice,  he  surrendered 
to  the  charm  of  her  beauty;  her  smile  of  encourage- 
ment bewildered  him  and  set  his  heart  throbbing. 
Had  she  at  that  moment  asked  for  anything  short  of 
his  life,  he  would  not  have  refused. 

Was  she  conscious  of  her  power?  Was  she  aware 
that,  body  and  soul,  he  was  hers,  to  make  or  to  mar 
for  life,  to  shape  his  future,  his  destiny?  Did  she 
consider  that  a  man  of  his  talent  might  attain  any 
honor  that  social  or  political  life  offers?  Did  she 
realize  that  her  slightest  word  had  the  power  to  fill 
him  with  trembling  delight,  until  his  hopes  and  his 
fears  caused  him  hours  of  doubt,  of  torment?  Or, 
standing  beside  the  table  under  the  brilliant  light,  as 
she  fastened  a  crimson  flower  to  his  coat,  did  she  feel 
the  tumultuous  beating  of  his  heart,  or  did  his  breath, 
as  it  fanned  her  cheek,  warn  her  that  she  was  playing 
with  the  emotions,  the  passions,  of  a  strong  man? 
After  arranging  the  flower  to  her  liking,  when  she 
was  about  to  lead  the  way  to  the  drawing-room,  and 
her  hand  for  an  instant  lay  in  his,  did  the  throbbing 
pulse  speak  to  her  of  the  peril  of  unspoken  hope  held 
out  to  him?  Whatever  her  thoughts,  her  face  told 
nothing.  She  met  his  gaze  with  unflinching  candor, 
but  with  no  evidence  of  emotion. 


CourtlanO*          73 

"Let  us  go  to  the  drawing-room,"  she  said,  leading 
the  way.  "I  am  so  anxious,"  she  continued,  after 
they  were  seated,  so  near  together  that  the  folds  of  her 
gown  lay  in  a  gauzy  mass  at  his  feet.  "Tell  me  of 
your  progress  in  the  Malcolm  case.  You  know  my 
sympathy  is  always  with  the  accused." 

"But  this  is  an  exceptional  case.  Owing  to  Har- 
lan's  connection  with  your  father's  firm,  he  is  nat- 
urally the  one  most  interested  in  the  coming  trial." 

An  expression  of  pain,  of  sudden  alarm,  was  hid- 
den under  the  drooping  lids. 

"Of  course,"  she  answered,  "papa  is  anxious  that 
justice  be  done.  Though  Malcolm  was,  I  under- 
stand, a  favorite  clerk,  one  held  in  the  highest  esteem, 
still  papa  feels  that  he  owes  a  duty  to  the  memory  of 
his  late  partner." 

"Quite  so.  We  must  not  allow  our  sentiment  to  in- 
terfere with  justice." 

"But  the  evidence?" 

"Is  being  accumulated  every  day." 

"You  believe,  then,  that  there  is  sufficient  to  con- 
vict?" 

Her  manner  had  become  suddenly  earnest.  There 
was  an  incredulous  note  in  her  voice,  as  though  she 
doubted  the  possibility  of  what  she  heard. 

"I  haven't  the  slightest  doubt  of  his  conviction," 
he  said,  his  tone  that  of  the  attorney,  of  one  who  is 
master  of  himself  and  of  his  subject.  He  did  not 
observe  that  her  face  became  a  shade  paler.  She 


74          Ctoelpn  $an  CotmlanD* 

laughed  softly,  but  the  jarring  note  passed  un- 
heeded. 

"Men  are  heartless.  Why,  you  speak  as  lightly 
of  convicting  a  human  being  of  murder,  as  if  you 
were  ordering  your  clerk  to  fill  the  ink-stand." 

Her  voice  was  low,  but  betrayed  evident  feeling. 
He  smiled  at  her  earnestness.  Like  a  gust  of  wind 
fanning  a  smouldering  flame  into  life,  her  manner 
changed. 

"I  suppose  women  take  these  matters  altogether  too 
seriously,"  she  said,  "and  men — well,  men  are  quite 
as  much  to  blame  in  taking  us  seriously." 

With  easy  grace  she  arranged  the  folds  of  her 
dress  and  turned  toward  her  companion.  Her  move- 
ments, like  her  beauty,  appealed  to  him.  Her  voice 
and  manner  softened.  Her  arm  and  hand  rested  on 
the  cushioned  side  of  the  luxuriant  easy  chair  in 
which  she  sat,  her  close-fitting  gown  accentuating  the 
lines  of  her  lithe,  willowy  figure. 

"Now,  I  must  know  all — all  that  you  have  done  so 
far — what  you  hope  to  do.  Of  course,"  in  her  voice 
a  note  of  confidence,  "this  case  will  make  you  fa- 
mous." 

It  was  not  her  words  that  moved  him.  Every  line 
of  her  features  breathed  expectancy,  confidence,  en- 
treaty, but  with  the  graceful  diffidence  of  one  who 
acknowledged  superiority.  Her  eyes  held  his;  and 
though  at  first  he  began  to  speak  with  his  habitual 
caution,  it  was  her  glance,  her  swift  changing  ex- 


CourtlanD*          75 

pression  of  encouragement,  even  of  pride,  that  led 
him  on,  until  he  had  related  every  step  in  the  web  of 
circumstantial  evidence  the  Government  was  weav- 
ing about  the  accused.  While  he  was  speaking,  she 
did  not  interrupt  him.  Her  changing  color,  the  ex- 
pression of  her  eyes,  told  that  the  recital  affected  her. 
Her  feelings  were  those  of  a  criminal,  and  a  full  sense 
of  her  own  baseness,  because  of  the  part  she  was 
playing,  threatened  her  composure.  "What,"  she 
thought,  "would  the  man  to  whom  she  listened  think 
of  her  when  time  should  disclose  her  motives  ?  Would 
he  not  look  upon  her  as  one  unworthy  of  the  name  of 
woman  ?"  And  she  was  wilfully  encouraging  his  pas- 
sion, leading  him  to  hope  that  she  might  look  upon 
his  suit  with  favor.  She  was  startled  by  the  boldness 
of  her  deception ;  humiliated  when  she  considered  the 
use  she  intended  to  make  of  the  knowledge  thus  ob- 
tained. Yet  two  lives  were  at  stake.  Was  she  war- 
ranted in  her  course  ?  Did  the  end  justify  the  means  ? 
A  guilty  pang  for  an  instant  filled  her  with  shudder- 
ing remorse;  followed,  when  she  considered  the  pos- 
sible result  of  the  coming  trial,  with  feverish  deter- 
mination to  pursue  her  purpose  to  the  end. 

Her  father !  A  pallor  overspread  her  features.  Le 
Moyne's  expression  changed  to  one  of  concern. 

"This  recital  distresses  you.  What  a  brute  I  have 
been." 

She  attempted  to  laugh  away  his  fear,  and  her  ef- 
fort only,  increased  his  alarm. 


76          OEtoelpn  i?an  CourtlanD* 

"Really,  you  are  ill,"  he  insisted. 

"It  is  only  the  odor  of  the  flowers,  I  assure  you. 
Papa,"  she  addressed  her  father,  who  had  just  en- 
tered, "how  long  you  have  been !" 

"I  had  a  caller,  my  dear.  You  see,"  he  addressed 
Le  Moyne,  "we  are  never  entirely  free  from  busi- 
ness." 

His  daughter  watched  him  narrowly.  In  the  short 
time  he  had  been  gone,  his  animation  and  air  of  gay- 
ety  had  given  place  to  his  customary  expression  of  de- 
jection. In  an  almost  childish  tone  he  asked  Evelyn 
to  play  something. 

Without  comment  she  seated  herself  at  the  piano. 

"Play — play  lively  music.  I  cannot,"  he  addressed 
Le  Moyne,  "endure  slow  music — adagios.  I  know 
but  little  of  the  art,  but  I  know  what  I  like,  so  Ev- 
elyn plays  lively  music  for  me.  Do  you  like  slow, 
draggy  pieces  ?  They  remind  me  of  a  funeral." 

"Music  of  any  kind  pleases  me,"  Le  Moyne  re- 
plied. 

Evelyn,  who  was  a  finished  performer,  dashed  into 
a  brilliant  waltz. 

Van  Courtland's  appearance,  also  his  tone  and 
manner,  struck  Le  Moyne  as  somewhat  peculiar ;  and 
while  the  music  continued,  he  fell  to  studying  the 
features  of  his  host. 

"Strange,"  he  mused,  "I  had  not  noticed  his 
changed  appearance.  Why,  he  seems  like  a  different 


CourtlanD*          n 

person.  This  Harlan  affair  has  completely  upset 
him.  He  needs  rest  and  change  of  scene." 

For  a  moment  the  music  ceased.  Van  Courtland 
squirmed  uneasily  in  his  chair. 

"Play  some  more,  dear." 

She  played  only  a  few  bars  of  a  Chopin  waltz  when 
her  father  interrupted. 

"Not  that,  Evelyn.  That's  Chopin.  He  must 
have  had  one  great  sorrow  in  his  life,  and  he  has  told 
it  in  every  piece  he  wrote.  Play  something  cheer- 
ful." 

Again  the  music  gave  Le  Moyne  an  opportunity  to 
closely  watch  his  host,  and  his  former  opinion  was 
confirmed.  He  was  startled  by  the  look  of  abject- 
ness  and  dread;  and  as  the  music  deflected  attention 
from  Van  Courtland,  his  caution  relaxed.  If  ever 
terror  was  stamped  on  the  face  of  a  human  being, 
while  Le  Moyne  furtively  watched  him,  it  was  de- 
picted on  the  features  of  his  host.  His  shifting  glance 
encountering  Le  Moyne's,  his  expression  changed  and, 
as  crumpled  linen  is  smoothed  by  the  hand,  the  fear- 
ful lines  and  wrinkles  disappeared.  The  remainder 
of  the  evening  they  discussed  the  subject  that  was  up- 
permost in  the  mind  of  both.  When  some  strong  feat- 
ure of  the  Government's  case  was  touched  upon,  Van 
Courtland  became  jubilant;  again,  as  some  doubtful 
point  in  the  evidence  against  Malcolm  was  men- 
tioned, his  manner  abruptly  changed  to  that  of  child- 
ish insistence.  For  moments  at  a  time  his  eyes  would 


78          Ctoelpn  $an  CourtlanD. 

. 

rest  on  his  daughter's  face  in  a  pitiful  glance — his  ex- 
pression of  entreaty  changing  suddenly  to  that  of 
fear.  This  mood  would  be  followed  by  a  petulant 
outburst  until,  becoming  conscious  that  his  excited 
fancy  was  leading  him  into  danger,  with  an  effort  he 
would  resume  his  outward  calm.  Le  Moyne  was  mys- 
tified. Could  Harlan's  death  alone  affect  Van  Court- 
land  in  such  a  manner?  Or  were  his  strained  rela- 
tions with  his  wife  the  cause  ? 

Evelyn  never  allowed  her  father's  excited  state  to 
carry  him  beyond  the  bounds  of  reason.  By  gentle 
tact,  in  a  manner  so  entirely  natural  as  to  give  no  sug- 
gestion of  intent,  she  adroitly  interjected  a  word  or 
turned  the  subject,  when  his  lapse  of  caution  war- 
ranted it,  allowing  him  time  to  recover  himself.  She 
seemed,  in  fact,  when  she  took  the  initiative,  to  con- 
trol his  mind,  leading  it  into  whatever  channels  his 
safety  demanded,  and  he,  in  turn,  surrendered  to  her 
will,  her  slightest  word  guiding  him. 

An  hour  later  Le  Moyne  had  departed  and  Evelyn 
sat  in  her  room.  She  likened  the  part  she  was  play- 
ing to  the  prelude  to  a  tragedy,  she,  herself,  being  one 
of  the  central  figures;  but  there  was  a  grotesque- 
ness  about  it  all  that  filled  her  with  abhorrence.  What 
would  be  the  result  when  the  man,  believing  he  had 
won  her  love,  discovered  that  he  had  been  duped, 
tricked  by  the  woman  on  whom  he  had  bestowed  the 
very  essence  of  his  life — his  love.  Love?  At  the 
thought  she  shuddered.  She  revered  him  as  a  man  of 


OEfcelpn  l^an  CotmlanD,          79 

honor  and  sterling  worth,  but  he  awakened  no  fur- 
ther emotion — no  responsive  chord  had  been  touched. 
She  realized  the  wrong  she  was  doing  him,  realized 
that  he  might,  with  just  cause,  curse  her,  brand  her  as 
a  traitor.  She  tried  to  defend  her  course  by  arguing 
that,  should  she  turn  from  her  purpose,  a  human  life 
would  be  the  price  of  her  weakness.  She  knew  she 
was  forfeiting  her  self-respect,  her  right  to  the  name 
of  womanhood ;  but,  when  her  heart  sickened  at  the 
thought  of  the  future,  before  her  the  image  arose  of 
the  man.  accused  of  the  crime  for  which,  though  inno- 
cent, he  might  be  condemned.  Then  her  thoughts 
would  again  revert  to  Le  Moyne,  and  she  seemed  to 
hear  his  voice,  when  the  future  should  disclose  her 
perfidy,  raised  in  accusation — "I  trusted  you  and  you 
betrayed  me." 

"I  must  not  falter ;  if  I  do  ?— father !" 

She  whispered  the  words,  but  the  sound  seemed  to 
terrify  her.  Eising  in  affright  she  stood  motionless, 
confused,  like  a  child  that,  suddenly  waking,  is  on  the 
point  of  crying  out. 

After  standing  thus  for  some  moments,  as  if 
moved  by  a  controlling  impulse,  she  opened  the  door 
into  the  hall  and  listened. 

It  was  long  after  midnight  and  the  servants  slept. 
She  went  into  the  hall,  and  crept  to  the  stairs  lead- 
ing to  the  lower  floor.  Again  she  stood  in  a  listening 
attitude.  A  slight  sound  reached  her  and,  breath- 


80  (Ctoclwt  t?an  CourtlanD. 

less,  her  heart  beating  wildly,  she  heard  some  one 
stealthily  walking  about  in  the  drawing-room. 

Silently,  with  cautious  step,  she  crept  down  the 
stairs.  Reaching  the  gas  jet  in  the  hall,  she  turned 
it  on  full. 

It  is  not  physical  fear  that  gives  the  ordinary 
mortal  the  greatest  shock;  it  is  fear  when  danger 
threatens  those  we  love,  those  whose  lives  are  closely 
interwoven  with  our  own.  The  sight  she  beheld  when 
she  entered  the  drawing-room  filled  her  with  horror. 
Her  father,  his  face  livid,  was  standing  in  the  center 
of  the  room,  his  eyes  staring,  in  his  hands  a  revolver. 
At  a  glance  she  realized  that  he  was  asleep,  uncon- 
scious of  his  acts,  carrying  out  some  prompting  of  a 
dream,  or  reenacting  some  episode  of  the  past.  Fear- 
ing to  awaken  him,  she  did  not  speak,  but,  breathless, 
trembling,  watched  his  movements. 

The  muscles  of  his  face  twitched  convulsively  as 
though  he  were  trying  to  control  his  anger — his  feat- 
ures were  livid,  his  attitude  threatening.  Turning 
slowly  about,  he  faced  a  large  oval  table,  standing  in 
the  center  of  the  room,  and  carefully  hid  the  revolver 
in  the  folds  of  his  dressing-gown.  Then  followed  a 
brief  pantomime,  with  excited  gestures,  and  he  shook 
a  threatening  finger  at  an  imaginary  person  opposite 
him  at  the  table.  Remaining  silent  for  some  mo- 
ments, he  was  apparently  listening  to  a  reply. 

When  her  father  turned  toward  the  table,  Evelyn 
walked  to  where  she  could  observe  his  features,  on 


Ctoelpn  $an  CourtlanD,          si 

which  was  depicted  every  shade  of  mortification,  that 
resolved  into  a  settled  expression  of  passionate  anger. 
She  saw  his  lips  move  in  a  convulsive  effort  to 
speak,  and  leaning  forward,  she  listened  to  disjointed 
sentences,  uttered  in  an  unnatural  tone,  half  of  weari- 
ness, half  of  anger. 

"Harlan — disgrace — my  daughter !" 
The  words  fell  on  the  silence  with  a  distinctness  that 
made  the  listener  start  with  affright,  for  the  sound,  to 
her  excited  imagination,  seemed  to  ring  through  the 
house  like  the  clang  of  a  bell.  Beyond  the  circle  of 
dim  light  her  distorted  vision  peopled  the  darkened 
recesses  of  the  room  with  a  legion  of  ghostly  forms — 
witnesses  to  her  father's  avenging  act.  Fearing  the 
consequence  should  she  suddenly  arouse  him  from  his 
sleep,  she  remained  impassive.  Doubt  could  no  longer 
exist  as  to  the  scene  she  was  witnessing.  Her  heart 
sank,  and  she  helplessly  waited  the  end. 

Suddenly  he  took  a  step  forward.  Resting  his  left 
hand  on  the  table,  he  leaned  across  it,  his  features 
convulsed,  his  lips  framing  words  that,  in  his  anger, 
he  was  unable  to  utter;  then  the  hand  that  clutched 
the  revolver  was  quickly  raised.  An  instant  the  weap- 
on was  poised  to  make  his  aim  certain,  and  through- 
out the  house  rang  the  report  of  the  pistol,  which  was 
immediately  followed  by  the  crash  of  the  heavy  plate- 
glass  mirror  at  the  end  of  the  room  falling  to  the 
floor.  Within  the  instant  Evelyn  was  beside  her  fa- 


82          OEtoelpn  t£an  CotmlanB* 

ther,  who,  confused  and  trembling,  stood  looking  at 
the  weapon. 

Evelyn's  mind  leaped  from  the  confused  present  to 
the  possible  result  that  might  follow.  Already  she 
heard  the  scurrying  servants,  awakened  by  the  pis- 
tol report  and  the  falling  glass.  Instantly  her  plan  of 
action  matured.  Stepping  to  the  window,  one  of  two 
between  which  the  mirror  had  rested,  she  raised  it, 
then  returned  to  her  father.  She  could  hear  the  but- 
ler's hurrying  step.  Fortunately  fear  retarded  his 
progress. 

"Father,"  she  said  in  an  authoritative  tone,  "when 
the  servants  come,  let  me  explain.  Do  not  speak  till 
I  dismiss  them." 

Just  as  she  finished  her  instruction,  the  butler  ap- 
peared at  the  door.  Seeing  that  he  was  in  the  pres- 
ence of  members  of  the  family,  and  had  nothing  to 
fear,  he  entered  with  alacrity. 

"~N"o  one  hurt,  Miss,  I  hope  ?"  he  asked  excitedly. 

"No,  James.    We  are  not  hurt" 

The  other  servants  were  appearing,  in  varying  de- 
grees of  undress,  their  blanched  faces,  after  the 
danger  had  passed,  adding  a  touch  of  the  ludicrous  to 
the  seemingly  tragic  midnight  encounter. 

"I  was  awakened,"  Evelyn's  voice  was  as  calm  as  if 
she  were  ordering  dinner,  "by  the  noise  of  a  chair 
falling  over.  I  called  father.  Taking  his  revolver, 
we  crept  to  the  door  and  discovered  a  burglar  in  the 


CourtlanD,          ss 

room.  Father  fired  as  the  man  was  about  to  make  his 
escape.  The  danger  is  over,"  she  smiled,  "and  you 
may  return  to  bed." 

"Is  there  nothing  I  can  do,  sir  ?"  inquired  the  but- 
ler. "The  glass " 

"Can  remain  till  morning,  James,"  Van  Court- 
land  replied.  "We  will  attend  to  it  then." 

Though  Evelyn  detected  a  waver  in  her  father's 
voice,  considering  his  bewildered  condition  of  a  few 
moments  before,  he  was  remarkably  calm.  It  was  not 
Evelyn's  intention,  however,  to  trust  to  his  discre- 
tion. Her  quick  "good-night"  was  a  dismissal  of  the 
group  of  servants,  and  they  betook  themselves  to  their 
quarters,  not,  however,  to  sleep,  but  to  exchange  opin- 
ions, gossip  and  comment  on  their  fortunate  escape. 

"Father,"  in  her  voice  was  a  note  strange  to  it, 
"have  you  quite  recovered  ?" 

"Quite,  dear.  I  must  have  been  walking  in  my 
sleep." 

"You  were.  But  it  isn't  safe  to  have  firearms 
near  you.  Give  me  the  weapon." 

Meekly  he  handed  it  to  her. 

"The  servants  will  talk,"  she  said.  "You  under- 
stood my  statement  to  them." 

"Thoroughly,"  he  rejoined. 

"Lie  down,  father,"  she  said  gently,  "and  try  to  get 
some  sleep." 

He  did  not  answer,  but,  after  embracing  her,  went 
to  his  room. 


84          o&jelpn  $an  Courtlantu 


It  was  only  when  she  was  alone,  when  the  nervous 
tension  of  the  past  hour  relaxed,  that  she  gave  way  to 
her  grief.  What  she  had  witnessed  left  no  room  for 
doubt  Before  her  had  been  enacted  the  murder  of 
Harlan,  with  all  its  terrible  detail.  And  another 
than  her  father  was  accused  of  the  crime.  Who  the 
man  was,  whether  of  good  or  evil  instinct,  it  mattered 
not  ;  and  the  thought  of  the  Government's  determina- 
tion to  fix  the  crime  upon  him,  a  crime  of  which  she 
now  knew  to  a  certainty  that  her  own  father  was 
guilty,  drove  her  into  a  frenzy  of  fear.  Love  for  her 
father  prompted  her  to  believe  that,  when  he  com- 
mitted the  deed,  he  was  mentally  unbalanced.  His 
appearance  and  conduct  since  the  fatal  night  tended 
to  confirm  that  opinion;  his  overwrought  nervous 
state,  together  with  what  she  had  witnessed,  had  dis- 
pelled all  doubts.  What  was  she  to  do  ?  What  steps 
should  she  take  ?  To  denounce  her  father  ?  Impossi- 
ble! But  Malcolm  - 

"Alo,"  she  exclaimed.  "No!  He  must  be  cleared 
—  he  will  be.  My  future  —  it  is  his  life  I  must  con- 
sider." 

The  light  of  the  dawn  was  stealing  through  the 
half  curtained  windows  before  sleep  blotted  out  the 
scene  of  the  past  night 


CotmlanD,          85 


CHAPTER  VII. 

MAJOE  STRONG  was  comfortably  seated  in  an  easy 
chair,  his  feet  on  the  iron  fender,  and  a  newspaper 
that  he  had  been  reading  in  his  lap.  Holding  his 
cigar  between  his  fingers,  he  meditatively  watched  the 
smoke  curl  upward.  He  was  pleased  with  its  flavor, 
and  was  in  a  most  amiable  frame  of  mind.  Though 
the  Malcolm  case  presented  unlooked-for  difficulties, 
to  a  man  of  the  Major's  temperament  its  unfavorable 
aspect  only  increased  his  determination  to  win  it. 
Annoyances,  even  the  thought  of  possible  failure,  he 
brushed  aside.  Mentally  wrestling  with  knotty  law 
problems,  he  devised  means  to  get  around  an  appar- 
ent weakness  in  his  line  of  attack  or  resistance ;  and, 
when  his  own  resources  were  exhausted,  he  had  re- 
course to  Betts,  for  he  respected  the  judgment  of  his 
taciturn  clerk. 

They  were  alone  in  the  office,  the  others  having 
gone  for  the  day. 

"Betts,"  the  Major's  voice  was  cheery,  "what's  your 
opinion  of  Malcolm's  case  ?" 

"Haven't  one.  Don't  know  the  evidence  for  the 
defense,"  answered  the  man  of  few  words. 


86  OEtoelpn  ^an  CourtlanD, 

"Evidence !  There  is  none.  That's  the  rub.  The 
fellow  is  as  dumb  as  an  oyster." 

"Frighten  him." 

The  Major  laughed. 

"Frighten  him!  By  threats?  You  might  as  well 
threaten  a  streak  of  lightning !" 

"Coax  him!" 

"You  can  neither  coax  nor  drive  him.  He's 
mulish." 

"Woman  in  the  case  ?" 

"Can't  tell.    He'll  admit  nothing." 

"Man  of  fine  sensibility — far-fetched  notion  of 
honor  ?" 

"Now  you've  hit  it,  Betts.  He's  one  of  those  fel- 
lows who'd  sooner  die  than  implicate  some  one  he 
wishes  to  shield." 

Strong  had  had  a  second  interview  with  the  ac- 
cused which,  owing  to  the  young  man's  obstinacy,  was 
even  more  unsatisfactory  than  the  first.  There  were 
two  points  upon  which  the  Major  demanded  informa- 
tion: The  object  of  his  client's  visit  to  the  deceased 
man,  and  whether  Malcolm  had  any  knowledge  of 
any  one  entering  the  Harlan  house  or  grounds  after 
his  departure. 

Both  these  questions  Malcolm  quietly  but  firmly  re- 
fused to  answer. 

With  little  regard  for  the  feelings  of  his  client,  the 
Major  designated  his  refusal  as  nothing  short  of  fool- 
hardiness.  Without  comment  Malcolm  quietly  lis- 


CourtlanU*          sr 

tened,  but  with  the  air  of  one  who  had  weighed  well 
the  consequence  of  his  decision,  and  was  prepared  to 
abide  by  the  result. 

"Young  man,"  caustically  remarked  the  Major, 
when  he  had  exhausted  every  method  of  gaining  his 
point,  "you  are  simply  courting  death,  and  incident- 
ally making  yourself  ridiculous.  Do  you  expect  me 
to  prove  your  innocence  if  you  persist  in  your  refusal 
to  tell  me  what  you  know  ?" 

"Really,  Major,  I  expect  nothing." 

"Well,"  the  Major  retorted  with  savage  emphasis, 
"you  may  expect  a  verdict  of  'guilty.' ' 

If  he  expected  his  unfeeling  frankness  to  make  an 
impression  on  his  hearer,  he  was  doomed  to  disap- 
pointment. Malcolm  betrayed  not  the  slightest  re- 
sentment. Maddened  by  his  failure  to  gain  the  evi- 
dence he  desired,  the  lawyer  continued : 

"Malcolm,"  he  said  abruptly,  "you  know  who  mur- 
dered Harlan." 

He  watched  the  features  of  his  companion,  but 
again  failure  awaited  his  effort — not  a  muscle  moved, 
the  glance  that  met  his  own  was  fearless,  and,  what 
entirely  upset  the  Major's  equanimity,  the  eyes  ex- 
pressed a  childlike  candor.  But  hidden,  veiled  by  the 
eyelashes,  was  a  suspicious  twinkle  of  merriment. 

"I  wonder  if  the  man  is  laughing  at  me  ?"  Strong 
mentally  queried. 

His  ire  was  roused.  He  decided  to  attack  his  client 
at  close  quarters. 


88          oftjelpn  $an  CourtlanB* 


"Look  here!"  he  said  brusquely,  "you  would  re- 
ceive your  just  deserts  should  I  decline  to  go  on  with 
your  case." 

"Of  that  I  am  painfully  conscious." 

The  speaker's  self-possession  increased  the  Major's 
wrath. 

"Yet  you  go  on  jeopardizing  your  liberty,  even 
your  life  !" 

"I  have  no  alternative." 

"That,"  replied  the  Major,  in  a  tone  of  savage 
abruptness,  "is,  to  express  it  mildly,  as  far  from  the 
truth  as  you  could  state  it." 

If  the  speaker  expected  to  touch  some  rebellious 
chord  in  the  man's  nature,  he  failed.  He  was  re- 
warded by  a  courteous  silence. 

"Now,"  continued  the  lawyer  hotly,  conscious  that 
his  last  shot  had  failed  to  score,  "I  shall  not  withdraw 
from  the  case,  for,  before  the  day  of  trial,  I  intend  to 
wring  from  you  the  evidence  I  seek,  or  to  obtain  it 
elsewhere." 

No  answer.  The  Major  glared  his  resentment. 
"Was  this  man  made  of  adamant  ?"  he  mused.  Then 
aloud  : 

"Judge  how  far  I  am  from  the  truth:  You  were 
either  a  witness  to  the  tragedy,  or,  after  leaving  the 
house  or  grounds,  you  saw  the  man  enter  who  com- 
mitted the  deed.  That  someone  is  known  to  you  —  he 
is  either  an  acquaintance  or  a  friend  ;  and  whichever 
it  may  be,  you  have  some  sentimental  reason  for 


89 

shielding  him.  You  call  that  honor,  don't  you?  I 
call  it  rot — sheer  rot!  Young  man,"  the  speaker 
made  no  attempt  to  veil  the  sarcasm,  "how  far  from 
the  truth  am  I?" 

A  faint  color  stealing  into  Malcolm's  cheeks  was 
the  only  evidence  that  his  outward  calm  was  dis- 
turbed. But  had  the  astute  lawyer  the  power  to 
read  the  mind  of  his  listener,  or  to  judge  of  its  tur- 
moil, he  would  have  gone  away  rejoicing,  and  upon 
his  hypothesis  would  have  planned  his  line  of  defense. 
Though  fear,  while  the  Major  was  speaking,  filled  the 
young  man  with  a  nervous  dread,  his  self-control  did 
not  desert  him,  and  the  lawyer  again  felt  the  sting 
of  defeat — the  face  that  he  narrowly  scanned  for 
some  sign  of  assent  to  his  surmises  told  him  noth- 
ing. 

"He's  an  extraordinary  person,"  was  the  Major's 
mental  estimate  of  his  client ;  "I  can't  help  admiring 
him ;  but  he'd  provoke  a  saint." 

The  Major,  conscious  of  defeat,  so  far  as  gaining 
the  information  he  desired  was  concerned,  took  his 
departure;  but  his  failure  only  whetted  his  deter- 
mination to  succeed. 

"He  deserves  to  be  convicted,"  was  his  muttered 
comment  after  parting  with  his  client,  "but  he'll 
play  with  the  jury  exactly  as  he  plays  with  me.  The 
effect  will  be  the  same,  and  they'll  get  to  admire  the 
young  devil.  He's  like  a  thoroughbred  that  won't 
take  the  bit.  I'll  put  him  on  the  stand  in  his  own 


90 

defense.  The  jury'll  vow  that  his  obstinacy  deserves 
a  verdict  of  guilty;  they'll  finish  by  acquitting  him." 

What  annoyed  the  Major  more  than  all  else  was 
the  knowledge  that  powerful  influence  was  arrayed 
on  the  side  of  the  Government  to  secure  a  conviction. 
Who  desired  to  fix  the  guilt  on  Malcolm? 

Though  to  no  attorney  in  the  state  were  such 
sources  of  information  open  as  to  the  Major,  he 
was  forced  to  content  himself  with  conjectures  only. 

For  some  moments  after  the  Major's  reply  to  his 
clerk's  query  concerning  Malcolm's  motive  for  with- 
holding information,  the  attorney  smoked  in  silence. 
Betts  awaited  the  next  question.  The  case  was  suffi- 
ciently mysterious  to  pique  even  his  curiosity. 

"Betts,  suppose  a  man  leaving  Harlan's  house  had 
seen  someone  enter  whom  he  knew.  The  following 
day  the  man  leaving  the  house  was  arrested,  and 
refused  to  implicate  the  one  he  had  seen  entering 
the  house.  Upon  what  theory  would  you  base  his 
course  of  action  ?" 

To  Betts  sentiment  was  almost  unknown.  He 
viewed  men  and  things  in  a  cold-blooded,  methodical 
manner.  His  worldly  knowledge  had  been  acquired 
in  the  great  school  of  experience, — a  school  that  had 
been  a  severe  teacher.  He  had  worked  in  an  atmos- 
phere of  human  strife,  amidst  a  conflict  of  human 
wills.  Within  the  four  walls  of  the  room  where  he 
now  sat,  had  been  enacted  countless  social  tragedies. 
Nothing  surprised  him;  from  the  lowest  depths  that 


OEtoelpn  ^an  Courtlana*          91 

human  degradation  can  reach,  to  the  highest  flight  of 
heroism — all  affected  Betts  in  the  same  degree.  To 
the  apple  woman,  who  daily  made  the  round  of  the 
business  offices,  he  not  infrequently  handed  his  frugal 
lunch,  believing,  somehow,  that  she  was  more  in  need 
of  it  than  himself.  For  the  newsboy  he  had  an  extra 
penny,  and  a  deep,  though  unexpressed,  sympathy 
for  the  world  of  poverty  from  which  the  urchin 
had  sprung.  In  his  professional  capacity,  however, 
sentiment  played  no  part.  Tears,  threats,  rejoicing, 
he  listened  to  with  the  same  complacency.  In  the 
line  of  his  duty  nothing  escaped  his  observation ;  but 
to  the  great  tide  of  humanity  that  it  had  been  his 
good  or  evil  fortune  to  meet,  he  was  as  unresponsive 
as  was  the  wooden  stool  on  which  he  now  sat 

"It  is  apparent,"  he  replied,  in  answer  to  the 
Major's  question,  "that  Malcolm  is  shielding  some- 
one. Motive  ?  Love,  honor,  gratitude.  Sure  no 
woman's  in  the  case?" 

"Quite  so,"  was  the  Major's  laconic  reply. 

"Look  then  to  his  nearest  connections.    Family?" 

"No.  So  far  as  I  can  learn  he  is  entirely  alone; 
not  a  relative  living." 

"Friends,  chums  ?" 

"Only  in  a  general  way.  Considered  rather  dis- 
tant at  his  club." 

Betts  meditated.  The  Major  smiled.  He  often 
submitted  to  cross-examination  at  the  hands  of  his 
clerk.  It  was  one  of  the  lawyer's  favorite  methods 


92          dEtoelpn  $an  Courtlanto* 


of  sifting  evidence,  of  suggesting  new  lines  of 
thought. 

"Been  long  with  the  bank  ?" 

"Began  as  clerk.     Worked  up  to  cashier." 

"Eelations  with  the  firm  pleasant?" 

"Entirely  so." 

"Who  is  furnishing  the  money  to  insure  his  con- 
viction?" demanded  Betts  abruptly. 

"You  are  aware  of  that?"  The  Major's  tone  be- 
trayed surprise. 

"As  well  aware  of  it  as  I  am  that  you  are  retained 
for  the  defense  by  someone  who  does  not  care  to  be 
known." 

"You  are  right.  I  believe  this  is  the  first  case  that 
I  haven't  taken  you  entirely  into  my  confidence.  I 
am  bound  to  secrecy." 

"I  understand,  sir." 

The  Major's  tone  was  apologetic;  his  voice  mani- 
fested an  unusual  degree  of  feeling.  He  held  his 
clerk  in  high  regard;  from  long  association,  he  had 
learned  to  appreciate  his  sterling  qualities  of  heart 
and  mind.  After  a  brief  pause,  they  resumed  their 
discussion  of  the  case. 

"Those  most  concerned  in  the  tragedy  were  asso- 
ciated with  the  banking  firm,"  Betts  remarked. 

"As  far  as  my  information  goes,  yes." 

"Any  other  members  in  the  firm  besides  Van 
Courtland  and  Harlan?" 

"No." 


OEtoelpn  $an  CourtlanD,          93 

"What  were  his  relations  with  Harlan  ?" 

"Now,"  said  the  Major,  turning  round  in  his  seat, 
— he  had  been  sitting  facing  the  fire — "you  have  hit 
upon  the  point  I  have  long  pondered.  It  was  pub- 
licly known,  before  Harlan's  death,  that  their  rela- 
tions were  somewhat  strained.  Gossip  had  unpleas- 
antly associated  the  name  of  Van  Courtland's  wife 
with  that  of  the  junior  partner.  But,"  asked  the 
Major,  assuming  the  role  of  cross-questioner,  "what 
bearing  has  that  on  Malcolm's  case  ?" 

Betts  parried  the  question  by  asking  another. 

"Who  was  benefited  by  Harlan's  death  ?" 

"Apparently  no  one,  unless " 

"Unless  we  can  furnish  a  motive." 

"Harlan  attended  the  Van  Courtland  reception  the 
night  of  the  murder." 

"That  proves  nothing.  Evening  dress  sometimes 
breeds  social  tragedies.  It  is  agreed  that  robbery 
was  not  the  motive." 

"Unquestionably  it  was  not." 

"Then  it  must  be  jealousy  or  revenge." 

It  was  plainly  evident  that  the  minds  of  both  men 
were  working  along  parallel  lines ;  but  each  refrained 
from  giving  expression  to  his  thoughts.  The  entrance 
of  a  brother  attorney,  one  of  the  Major's  close 
friends,  put  an  end  to  the  discussion. 

Betts' s  line  of  -reasoning  was  but  the  echo  of  the 
Major's  previously  conceived  opinion.  Since  his 
first  interview  with  Evelyn  Van  Courtland,  the 


94          OEtoelpn  $an  CourtlanD, 


thought  that  her  father,  directly  or  indirectly,  was 
connected  with  the  crime,  grew  from  vague  impres- 
sion into  a  belief. 

"What  ground,"  he  argued,  "had  he  on  which  to 
base  his  opinion  ?  What  evidence  ?  None."  What 
baffled  him  more  than  all  else,  was  that  the  daughter 
of  Howard  Van  Courtland  should  appear  in  the  case 
—  as  the  champion  of  a  man  she  had  never  seen. 
What  possible  interest  could  she  have  in  Malcolm? 
She  was  not  one  who,  when  a  young  man  of  personal 
or  social  prominence  is  charged  with  a  crime,  would 
indulge  in  the  sentimental  extravagancies  of  her  sex. 
No,  her  motive  had  its  birth  in  the  belief  in  his 
innocence;  it  was  this  belief  that  impelled  her  to 
interest  herself  in  his  behalf  !  Did  she  know  that  he 
was  not  guilty  ?  If  so,  then  she  doubtless  knew  who 
committed  the  crime.  The  Major's  first  duty  was 
to  his  client,  and,  conscious  of  the  difficulties  he  had 
to  overcome,  he  directed  his  energy  to  the  prepara- 
tion of  the  coming  trial.  It  was  not  the  lack  of 
evidence,  nor  the  fact  that  his  client  gave  him  little 
or  no  assistance,  that  annoyed  the  keen  witted  lawyer. 
He  was  well  aware  of  the  power  of  money  in  criminal 
cases;  and,  while  he  deplored  conditions  that  made 
possible  such  a  vicious  system,  he  was  fully  alive 
to  the  danger  that  threatened.  If  sufficient  funds 
were  forthcoming,  necessary  evidence  could  always 
be  obtained.  To  be  prepared  for  unexpected  evi- 
dence, to  guard  against  surprise,  he  had  called  into 


CourtlanD*          95 

the  case  two  of  the  most  competent  men  in  the  city, 
men  he  had  often  employed.  Their  instructions 
were  to  discover  the  evidence  on  which  the  Govern- 
ment relied,  and,  more  than  all  else,  to  ascertain  if 
what  was  termed  "manufactured"  evidence  was  to  be 
introduced.  Thus  slowly  but  surely  the  day  of  the 
trial  approached,  and  with  patient,  though  inde- 
fatigable effort,  the  Major  marshalled  his  facts  for 
the  defense. 


96          cuelpn  l?an  CoiirtlanD* 


CHAPTEE  VIII. 

SEVERAL  times  Evelyn  had  been  in  Major  Strong's 
office,  always  at  or  near  the  close  of  the  business  day, 
selecting  an  hour  when  she  would  be  least  likely 
to  encounter  anyone  who  might  recognize  her.  In- 
variably her  interviews  with  Strong  were  made  by 
appointment,  the  Major  taking  care  that  upon  her 
arrival  she  should  be  shown  into  a  private  office. 
Besides  the  attorney,  Betts  alone  knew  of  her  visits ; 
and  if  he  suspected  her  identity,  or  her  connection 
with  the  Malcolm  case,  neither  by  word  nor  act  did 
he  betray  his  knowledge.  Once  Evelyn  suggested  to 
the  Major  that  his  clerk  might  become  aware  of  her 
interest  in  the  case,  but  the  attorney  checked  her. 

"Give  yourself  no  uneasiness,"  he  had  answered, 
"I  have  had  many  important  cases,  and  yours  is  the 
only  one  with  the  details  of  which  I  have  not  made 
him  acquainted.  Should  he,  however,  guess  the 
truth,  the  knowledge  would  be  safe.  My  trust  in 
him  is  absolute." 

Her  fears  were  not  wholly  allayed  even  by  the 
Major's  explanation,  and  she  took  every  precaution 
to  keep  her  identity  a  secret. 


$an  CourtlanD,          or 

She  never  came  to  the  attorney's  office  without 
giving  him  some  important  information,  a  bit  of 
evidence  that  the  Government  had  acquired,  or  the 
name  of  a  witness,  together  with  the  nature  of  the 
testimony  he  was  to  furnish. 

The  Major  was  filled  with  amazement. 

"Where  did  she  acquire  this  knowledge  ?"  Some 
of  it  that,  to  her,  seemed  important,  he  knew  to  be 
immaterial;  of  this  he  made  no  note,  nor  did  he 
comment  on  it.  But  she  had  become  acquainted  with 
facts  in  the  Government's  case  of  the  most  vital 
nature — facts  which  he  realized  she  must  have  ob- 
tained from  that  inner  circle  that  zealously  guards 
such  evidence.  At  one  of  these  interviews  she  in- 
formed Strong  that  the  Government  knew  that 
another  besides  Malcolm  was  seen  entering  the 
grounds  of  Harlan's  house  the  night  of  the  murder. 

Instantly  her  listener  awoke  to  the  importance 
of  the  information. 

"The  Government  has  a  witness,  you  say,  who  will 
testify  to  that  effect  ?" 

"Yes." 

"Can  the  witness  identify  the  person  whom  he 
saw  go  into  the  grounds  ?" 

"No." 

The  answer  came  in  a  tone  of  relief  that  did  not 
escape  the  Major. 

"How  does  he  know  that  it  was  not  Mr.  Malcolm  ?" 

"He  met  Mr.  Malcolm  but  a  moment  before." 


98          dEtoelpn  $an  CourtlanB* 


"Then  he  knows  him  ?" 

"Yes,  the  man  is  employed  in  an  hotel  where  Mr. 
Malcolm  once  lived." 

"And  he  cannot  identify  the  person  he  saw  enter- 
ing?" 

"He  says  not.  It  was  too  dark  to  see  the  features  ; 
and  he  saw  the  man  only  as  he  entered  the  walk  lead- 
ing to  the  house." 

The  Major  was  silent  for  some  seconds. 

"If  we  could  establish  the  identity  of  this  person, 
we  should  have  little  trouble  in  clearing  Malcolm 
of  the  charge.  Will  the  Government  use  this  evi- 
dence ?" 

"No,"  she  replied,  "it  will  not." 

She  had  no  sooner  answered  the  question  than  she 
realized  her  mistake.  She  was  assuming  knowledge 
that  might  lead  to  conclusions  too  near  the  truth. 
Whatever  the  Major  thought,  he  refrained  from 
voicing  his  opinions;  and  the  theory  took  firm  hold 
of  his  mind  that  she  knew  more  of  the  tragedy  than 
she  cared  to  admit. 

The  part  Evelyn  was  playing  filled  her  with  re- 
pulsion. Her  meetings  with  Le  Moyne  had  become 
more  frequent,  and,  having  once  entered  upon  her 
line  of  action,  each  succeeding  interview  added  to  her 
embarrassment.  Yet  she  was  powerless  to  retreat. 
Neither  did  she  for  a  moment  falter  in  her  resolve. 
If  she  surrendered  her  self  respect,  and  tacitly  held 
out  hope  to  the  man  who  no  longer  made  an  effort 


OEtoelpn  $att  CourtlanD*          99 

to  hide  his  growing  passion,  there  remained  to  her 
the  consolation  that  her  course  was  warranted  by  her 
effort  to  save  the  life  of  an  innocent  man. 

After  an  evening  spent  with  Le  Moyne,  his  impas- 
sioned words  still  ringing  in  her  ears,  an  overwhelm- 
ing sense  of  guilt  would  take  possession  of  her.  She 
realized  to  the  fullest  the  wrong  she  was  doing  the 
man  with  whose  heart  she  was  toying,  over  whose  life 
she  had  gained  such  ascendancy  that,  to  him,  her 
lightest  word  or  whim  was  a  law.  She  trembled  when 
she  thought  that  in  years  to  come  he  might  curse  her, 
and  through  her  all  womankind.  As  she  realized 
her  growing  power,  the  knowledge  only  tended  to 
awaken  in  her  a  feeling  of  repugnance.  Had  she 
met  with  greater  difficulty  in  accomplishing  her  pur- 
pose, that  of  gaining  his  entire  confidence,  had  he 
set  a  higher  price  for  his  surrender,  at  least  exacting 
from  her  a  recognition  of  his  love,  her  respect  for 
him  would  not  have  been  lessened,  even  if  she  could 
not  have  met  his  advances  with  increasing  favor.  Her 
conquest  had  been  too  complete,  and  was  accom- 
plished without  that  uncertainty  which  makes  suc- 
cess doubly  sweet.  Somehow,  too,  disdain  mingled 
with  the  respect  he  had  formerly  awakened.  Passion 
dulled  discretion ;  he  lived  but  for  her ;  her  mind  and 
her  voice  dominated  his  life. 

Malcolm's  trial  was  the  first  case  of  its  nature  that 
Le  Moyne  had  been  called  upon  to  conduct.  His 
reputation  depended  upon  his  success.  No  one  appre- 


100 


ciated  this  fact  more  than  he.  Fully  alive  to  the 
difficulties  that  confronted  him,  he  did  not  fail  to 
recognize  many  weak  points  in  the  Government's 
case.  The  guilt  of  the  accused  must  be  proved  by 
circumstantial  evidence,  and  what  caused  Le  Moyne 
greater  concern  than  all  else  was  the  knowledge  that 
Strong  was  to  defend  the  accused.  How  had  Mal- 
colm been  able  to  retain  so  prominent  an  attorney? 
The  Major  had  no  greater  admirer  than  the  brillinat 
District  Attorney  who,  though  he  appreciated  the 
older  man,  feared  him.  There  was  another  circum- 
stance that  both  annoyed  and  mystified  him.  The 
defence  did  not  seem  to  lack  funds.  The  agents  of 
the  Government  were  being  met  at  every  turn  by  men 
skilled  in  the  art  of  unearthing  evidence,  of  anticipat- 
ing every  move  made  by  the  prosecution  in  the  prep- 
aration of  its  case.  Who  was  furnishing  the  money 
that  enabled  the  defence  to  acquire  information 
which  only  those  directing  the  Government's  case 
should  know  ?  Whose  the  master  mind  that,  having 
become  possessed  of  the  Government's  strongest  evi- 
dence, was  preparing  to  shake  its  worth  or  combat 
it  with  other  and  material  facts  ?  The  young  prose- 
cuting attorney  marveled,  for  he  could  no  longer 
ignore  the  humiliating  truth  that  the  defence  was 
in  possession  of  some  of  the  Government's  strongest 
evidence. 

In  their  college  days,  Le  Moyne  had  known  the 
accused  man  to  be  of  unquestioned  honor.    Though  it 


CourtlanD,         101 

was  the  duty  of  the  District  Attorney  to  secure  a 
conviction,  Le  Moyne  could  not  wholly  reconcile  him- 
self to  the  belief  of  Malcolm's  guilt.  Personal 
opinion,  however,  as  to  the  probable  innocence  or 
guilt  of  the  accused,  he  put  from  him. 

There  was  another,  and  a  stronger,  incentive  for 
his  success.  He  had  had  many  interviews  with  Van 
Courtland,  and,  though  no  open  declaration  had 
been  made  by  him,  he  knew  the  banker  regarded  him 
with  favor.  It  was  for  his  love  he  was  battling.  He 
believed  Evelyn's  interest  was  divided  between  her 
desire  for  a  conviction,  and  such  personal  honor  as 
might  be  his,  should  he  succeed.  Their  meetings  had 
become  more  frequent.  From  a  confidant,  she  had 
become,  by  an  unconscious  process,  his  adviser.  When 
together  they  went  over  the  case  even  to  its  minutest 
detail.  Each  new  bit  of  evidence,  its  bearing  upon 
the  guilt  of  the  accused,  and  its  probable  worth  in 
the  chain  of  circumstantial  evidence,  that,  as  the 
trial  approached,  seemed  complete,  was  discussed. 
Evelyn  listened,  interjecting  a  word,  suggest- 
ing a  line  of  thought,  but  with  sympathetic 
interest  and  infinite  tact,  leading  the  man  on 
till  he  had  reached  a  point  where  her  opinion  or 
counsel  directed  and  controlled  his  own. 

It  was  in  one  of  these  interviews,  that,  after  learn- 
ing of  a  line  of  evidence  that  the  Government  would 
introduce — evidence  which  she  believed  had  no  foun- 
dation of  truth — that  her  incautious  and  impassioned 


102         (Etoelpn  $an  Courtlantu 


reply  threatened  to  disclose  her  design.  She  was 
shocked  that  the  prosecution  should  try  to  strengthen 
its  case  by  evidence  she  knew  to  be  false.  Her  innate 
sense  of  justice  was  outraged,  her  instinct  for  truth 
rebelled  against  the  wrong  contemplated.  She  be- 
lieved Le  Moyne  to  be  a  party  to  the  scheme,  or  that, 
at  least,  he  gave  to  it  his  tacit  approval.  As  she  inter- 
rupted his  recital,  in  her  voice  there  was  mingled 
irony  and  disdain. 

"And  you  lend  yourself  to  this  outrageous  false- 
hood?" 

Her  tone  was  a  reprimand;  her  eyes  flashed  un- 
speakable scorn. 

He  flushed  hotly.  Her  retort  had  come  so  sud- 
denly that  he  was  nonplussed. 

"Falsehood  !"  he  exclaimed,  when  he  found  voice. 
"Why,  this  is  evidence  procured  by  competent  offi- 
cers." 

"It  is  false  —  every  word  of  it!"  she  retorted. 

His  glance  was  one  of  searching,  incredulous  in- 
quiry. 

"How  do  you  know?" 

He  was  not  the  lover,  but  the  cross-examiner  — 
every  faculty  alert,  ready  to  seize  upon  an  unguarded 
word,  look  or  gesture;  but  she  was  quick  to  realize 
her  mistake  and  as  quick  to  remedy  it.  Her  features 
underwent  a  transformation.  The  scorn  in  her  eyes 
melted  into  a  glance  of  quizzical  surprise,  —  a  wave 
of  merriment  sweeping  every  line  of  disapproval 


$att  CouttlanD*         103 

from  her  features.  Her  mirth  was  infectious,  and 
brought  a  smile  of  pleasure  to  his  lips.  Leaning 
toward  him,  her  hand  lay  on  his  in  a  half  caress, — 
her  attitude  one  of  mingled  surprise  and  playful 
abandon. 

"Dear  me !"  she  exclaimed.  "How  sensitive  you 
lawyers  are !  Of  course  I  know  nothing  of  the  evi- 
dence; but  it  is  delightful  to  rouse  your  spirit  of 
battle." 

It  was  the  touch  of  her  hand,  not  her  words,  that 
disconcerted  him.  A  quaint  little  gesture  of  banter- 
ing ridicule,  that  was  all ;  but  he  surrendered  to  her 
charm  of  manner,  his  eyes  too  plainly  telling  his 
unspoken  love.  Again  she  was  master  of  herself  and 
her  subject — again  she  held  dominion  over  the  man 
who  listened,  content  to  hear  her  voice. 

In  a  manner  so  natural  as  not  to  excite  his  sus- 
picions, she  adroitly  turned  the  topic  of  conversation, 
and  they  again  took  up  the  line  of  evidence  they 
had  been  discussing. 

"Do  you  know  Major  Strong  ?"  he  asked  abruptly, 
"that  is,  intimately?" 

"I  have  met  him  socially." 

Her  answer,  like  her  glance,  was  evasive. 

"What  is  your  opinion  of  him  ?" 

"He  is  a  charming  gentleman." 

"Unquestionably.  It  is  your  opinion  of  his  legal 
ability  that  I  wish." 


104=         dftjelpn  IPan  CourtlanD, 


"He  stands  in  the  front  rank  of  his  profession, 
does  he  not?" 

"Yes.    You  know  he  is  the  opposing  counsel." 

"So  I  believe.  Let  us  go  into  the  music  room.  It 
is  close  here." 

They  had  been  sitting  in  the  drawing  room.  It 
was  late  in  the  afternoon,  and  Le  Moyne  had  called 
to  see  Van  Courtland,  who  had  not  yet  returned  from 
the  city.  As  the  day  set  for  the  trial  neared,  the 
young  attorney  found  ample  excuse  for  his  daily 
visits.  He  must  consult  with  the  banker  on  the  forth- 
coming trial.  Always  timing  his  visits  when  he 
would  be  most  likely  to  meet  Evelyn  alone,  it  was 
with  evident  satisfaction  he  noted  her  growing  in- 
terest in  the  trial;  he  also  believed  that  each  suc- 
ceeding day  he  was  received  with  greater  favor. 

Never  had  she  seemed  more  beautiful  than  now. 
Motioning  him  to  a  seat  near  her,  with  bewitching 
simplicity  she  led  up  to  the  subject  of  the  evidence 
against  which  she  had  protested.  He  sat  in  the  full 
light  ;  her  chair  was  before  the  curtained  window,  her 
face  in  the  shadow. 

"Do  you  attach  much  weight  to  this  evidence?" 
she  asked  lightly. 

"Yes,  I  do.     It  is  important." 

"But  suppose  it  weren't  true  ?" 

"I  have  no  reason  to  doubt  it.  It  was  furnished 
by  one  of  the  most  competent  officers." 

She  looked   at  him   for   some   moments   without 


$art  CouttlanD*         105 

speaking.  "No"  she  mentally  concluded,  "he  be- 
lieves it,  and  he  will  act  upon  the  assumption  that 
it  is  worthy  of  credence."  Aloud,  she  said : 

"You  knew  Mr.  Malcolm  at  college — intimately, 
I  have  heard  you  say?" 

"Yes.  That  is  the  reason  why  at  first  it  was  diffi- 
cult for  me  to  believe  in  his  guilt." 

"And  you  are  now  entirely  satisfied  that  he  com- 
mitted the  crime  ?" 

Her  eyes  were  on  his  face.  Its  expression  was  not 
in  harmony  with  his  reply.  She  listened,  still  doubt- 
ing him. 

"It  is  the  duty  of  an  attorney,  as  it  is  that  of  a 
jury,  to  base  an  opinion  as  to  the  guilt  or  innocence 
of  the  accused  on  the  evidence  submitted.  My  first 
impression  was  to  doubt  the  probability  of  Malcolm's 
guilt;  considering  the  evidence,  I  am  forced  to  be- 
lieve he  committed  the  deed." 

Silence  followed  for  some  moments;  then,  rising, 
she  walked  across  the  room  and  leaned  against  the 
mantle.  Her  hand  resting  upon  it,  she  toyed  with 
one  of  the  ornaments  on  the  marble  slab.  His  glance 
followd  her  movements,  his  eyes  speaking  the  admira- 
tion he  dare  not  voice.  With  a  sudden  resolve  he 
crossed  to  her.  Taking  her  disengaged  hand  in  both 
his  own,  he  tried  to  speak.  The  color  leaped  to  his 
cheeks;  he  was  unnerved,  trembling  with  a  passion 
he  had  not  the  courage  to  declare.  He  would  speak, 
and  end  the  uncertainty.  A  refusal  of  his  love 


106         Oftjeln  l£an  CotmlanD. 


would  be  preferable  to  the  doubt  that  made  his  life 
a  torment  He  could  no  longer  bear  to  meet  her 
daily,  without  a  word  of  encouragement  or  hope.  The 
touch  of  her  hand  maddened  him,  but  the  eyes  into 
which  he  looked  did  not  soften  —  before  the  fire  of  his 
love  there  was  no  answering  gleam,  no  melting  of  the 
barrier  that  seemed  to  stand  between  him  and 
answering  hope.  He  would  remain  silent  no  longer  ; 
discretion,  even  self-control,  he  had  thrown  to  the 
wind. 

But  the  woman  beside  him  read  aright  the  expres- 
sion in  his  eyes;  her  calm  was  undisturbed.  To 
listen  to  a  declaration  of  love  was  then  far  from  her 
purpose.  .With  a  light  laugh  she  withdrew  her 
hand. 

"You  are  going  to  the  Wavily^s  reception  to- 
night ?"  she  asked. 

"Do  you  wish  me  to  go?" 

His  voice  was  husky,  his  glance  fell  before  her  look 
of  calm  interest 

"Yes,"  she  replied,  with  a  voice  of  abrupt  candor. 
Then,  in  a  lighter  mood,  "You  see,  if  you  are  there 
I  shall  be  spared  the  effort  of  finding  something  to 
say  in  the  avalanche  of  small  talk.  How  is  it,"  she 
queried  with  an  arch  glance,  "that  we  continually 
contrive  to  discuss  disagreeable  topics?" 

"True,"  he  said,  brightening,  "Let  us  substitute 
a  lighter  one." 

"For  example  -  " 


OEtielpn  $an  CourtlanO.         107 

"Love!" 

Her  tantalizing  laugh  filled  the  room.  Seating 
herself  at  the  piano,  she  dashed  into  a  brilliant  pre- 
lude just  as  her  father  entered  the  room.  He  greeted 
Le  Moyne  warmly. 

"Good,"  he  exclaimed,  as  Evelyn  finished.  "That's 
right,  dear,  play  lively  music.  You  will  remain  for 
dinner,"  he  again  addressed  Le  Moyne.  "You  must," 
he  insisted,  as  the  young  man  was  about  to  excuse 
himself.  "Later  we  can  go  to  Wavily's  together." 

Le  Moyne  smilingly  agreed  and,  dinner  being 
announced,  Van  Courtland  led  the  way  to  the  dining 
room. 

During  the  meal  Van  Courtland  appeared 
strangely  elated ;  but  his  remarks  were  disjointed,  his 
manner  nervous.  He  answered  his  guest  at  random, 
or  interjected  a  word  or  sentence  entirely  foreign  to 
the  topic  they  were  discussing.  At  first  Le  Moyne 
failed  to  notice  the  peculiar  manner  and  still  stranger 
language  of  his  host,  for  Evelyn  skilfully  managed 
to  keep  their  guest  interested.  Finally  it  dawned  on 
the  young  man  that  Van  Courtland  was  laboring 
under  acute  mental  excitement.  Many  times  he  re- 
turned to  the  subject  of  the  coming  trial,  and  it  was 
while  discussing  it  that  he  seemed  to  lose  control 
of  his  faculties. 

Evelyn  covertly  watched  her  father  with  increas- 
ing fear.  She  was  aware  that  Le  Moyne,  though 
listening  with  evident  interest,  was  narrowly  observ- 


108         OEtoelprt  l^an  CourtlanD. 

ing  his  host.  With  delicate  insistence,  Evelyn  re- 
ferred to  the  reception,  hoping  to  hold  her  father's 
attention.  Divining  her  purpose,  Le  Moyne  entered 
into  an  eager  discussion  of  people  whom  they  would 
be  likely  to  meet.  Evelyn  had  asked  their  guest  a 
trivial  question.  Before  he  could  reply,  Van  Court- 
land  interrupted : 

"He  should  be  convicted,"  he  exclaimed,  his  eyes 
aflame  with  excitement,  "He  must  be." 

"Father,"  Evelyn  replied  with  evident  feeling, 
"dismiss  the  subject  from  your  mind." 

"Dismiss  it!"  he  cried  in  a  shrill  voice,  "You 
don't  realize,  dear,  what  the  outcome  of  this  trial 
means  to  me.  Le  Moyne,"  he  directed  a  look  of 
mingled  fear  and  entreaty  to  his  guest,  "remember  I 
depend  on  you." 

With  the  fear  that  her  father  might  compromise 
himself  by  some  remark,  Evelyn  rose,  and  they  re- 
turned to  the  drawing  room.  Van  Courtland  threw 
himself  into  an  arm-chair,  leaving  to  his  daughter 
the  duty  of  entertaining  their  guest. 

Never  had  Evelyn  made  a  more  determined  effort 
than  now  to  invite  and  hold  the  attention  of  the  man 
who  listened,  enraptured  by  her  brilliant  repartee, 
smiling  at  her  shafts  of  delicate  irony,  dissenting 
from  her  views  that  he  might  invite  rejoinders  brist- 
ling with  the  most  powerful  weapon  of  argument — 
wit  Though  she  apparently  held  his  interest,  though 
neither  allowed  the  conversation  to  flag  for  an  instant, 


OEtoelpn  $att  CourtlanO,         109 

she  was  not  deceived.  While  answering  her,  Le 
Mojne  would  direct  a  quick,  searching  glance  towards 
her  father,  who  appeared  unconscious  of  his  sur- 
roundings. In  her  endeavor  to  entertain  Le  Moyne 
and  to  deflect  attention  from  her  father,  her 
ingenuity  was  taxed  to  its  utmost.  The  time  was 
nearing  when  they  were  to  start  for  the  evening 
reception,  and,  with  a  feeling  of  apprehension,  she 
excused  herself  that  she  might  make  the  necessary 
preparations.  In  her  father's  present  mental  condi- 
tion, she  feared  to  leave  him  alone  with  Le  Moyne. 
iWhat  if  he  should  further  excite  the  attorney's  sus- 
picions, or  his  unguarded  or  rambling  comments  lead 
to  conclusions  verging  on  the  truth  ? 

With  nervous  energy  she  directed  her  maid  to  lay 
out  an  elaborate  evening  dress,  and  with  critical  care 
she  gave  the  finishing  touches  to  her  toilet.  Return- 
ing to  the  drawing  room,  she  was  surprised  to  find 
her  father  sitting  where  she  had  left  him,  apparently 
in  a  deep  reverie,  while  Le  Moyne  was  listlessly  ex- 
amining a  collection  of  sketches.  She  flashed  him  a 
smile  of  greeting. 

"Have  I  been  long  ?"  she  asked. 

"Yes,  and  no,"  he  replied,  advancing. 

"Evelyn,  dear,"  her  father  interrupted,  "you  won't 
mind  if  I  do  not  go  with  you  ?  I  have  asked  Mr. 
Le  Moyne  to  represent  me." 

"Are  you  ill?"  she  asked  with  concern. 

"Not  at  all,  dear,  only  I  don't  feel  quite  equal  to 


no         OBtJelpn  $an  CourtlanD, 

going.  You  won't  mind  2"  he  asked,  addressing  the 
young  man. 

"We  can  give  up  going,"  Evelyn  answered,  before 
Le  Moyne  could  reply. 

"No,  no,"  exclaimed  Van  Courtland.  "You  must 
go.  They  will  expect  us.  You  can  say  that  I  am 
indisposed,  which  is  quite  true.  No,  you  and  Mr. 
Le  Moyne  shall  go.  I  shall  see  you  when  you  return, 
dear." 

His  manner  was  excited,  an  unhealthy  gray  pallor 
settled  over  his  features  and  intensified  the  look  of 
restless  fear  in  the  eyes. 

But  instantly  the  expression  changed  when  he 
looked  at  his  daughter.  The  flood  of  light  seemed 
to  reveal  new  beauty  of  face  and  figure.  Standing 
in  the  centre  of  the  room,  she  made  a  picture  that 
gladdened  the  eye  and  the  heart.  As  she  approached, 
her  father's  glance  mutely  voiced  his  pride ;  his  chiv- 
alric  manner  was  that  of  former  years. 

"Evelyn,  dear,"  a  note  of  tenderness  in  his  voice, 
"sooner  than  disappoint  you,  I  will  make  an  effort 
to  go." 

His  tone  and  manner  had  undergone  a  marked 
change.  It  was  as  though  a  magic  wand  had  swept 
every  line  of  care  from  his  features. 

"No,"  she  replied  gently,  "If  you  feel  indisposed 
you  must  remain  at  home.  Mr.  Le  Moyne  will  con- 
sent to  represent  you.  Will  you  not  ?"  she  asked. 

There  was  arch  inquiry  in  her  glance.     His  look 


CourtlanD.         111 

of  pleasure  preceded  his  words  of  assurance,  and 
betrayed  his  too  evident  desire  for  an  evening  with 
her,  unhampered  by  her  father's  presence  To  her, 
too,  Van  Courtland's  determination  to  remain  behind 
came  as  a  relief.  She  feared  the  curious  gaze  or  open 
comment  of  those  who  might  question  the  cause  of 
his  present  mental  state. 

A  few  minutes  later  the  carriage  was  being  driven 
rapidly  away,  and  Van  Courtland  was  alone. 


112         oftielpn  $an  Courtlantu 


CHAPTER  IX. 

COULD  Evelyn  have  seen  her  father's  face  after 
the  carriage  had  gone  and  he  had  returned  to  the 
drawing  room,  the  satisfaction  she  felt  at  his  refusal 
to  accompany  them  would  have  given  place  to  fear. 
The  joy  in  his  eyes  died;  lines  of  care  changed  the 
contour  of  his  features;  a  slight  stoop  of  the  shoul- 
ders adding  to  his  air  of  dejection.  His  step  became 
nervous,  uncertain ;  his  right  hand  fumbled  his  watch 
chain;  his  head  was  poised  as  though  listening  for 
some  expectant  sound,  for  his  name  to  be  called,  or 
for  the  approach  of  someone  who  was  late  in  coming. 
Pausing  suddenly,  he  would  cast  an  alarmed  glance 
at  the  door  or  the  window, — a  cry  for  an  instant 
trembling  on  his  lips;  then,  with  a  gesture  half  of 
disappointment,  half  of  despair,  resume  his  walk. 
Again,  startled,  he  would  stop  and  listen  to  the  noise 
of  carriage  wheels,  until  the  sounds  died  in  the  dis- 
tance; with  a  sigh  of  disappointment  or  fear  he 
would  struggle  against  a  passing  weakness — a  sickly 
smile  adding  a  touch  of  gruesomeness  to  his  ghastly 
features. 

"They  will  convict  him — they  must  1" 


OEtielpn  $an  CotmlanD.         us 

Throwing  himself  into  a  chair,  he  remained  silent, 
but  the  turmoil  was  going  on  within  him  with  re- 
newed force  and  increasing  bitterness. 

"And  the  dogs  know  him  to  be  innocent — I  hear 
it  in  their  voices,  I  see  it  in  their  eyes,  in  their  damn- 
able eyes ;  but  there  is  no  evidence  against  me — none ! 
They  are  content  with  the  money — the  hounds!  and 
they  will  kill  him,  kill  him!  and  their  hands  will 
be  as  red  with  blood  as  are  mine.  That  is  their  trade. 
For  money  they  barter  human  life.  They  will  kill 
him !  and  I  shall  be  twice  a  murderer.  No,  no !" 

Shrieking  the  words,  he  leaped  to  his  feet.  He 
stood  trembling  in  terror,  as  if  fighting  against  a 
sudden  resolve,  his  purpose  well  defined,  yet  power- 
less to  act.  Gradually  an  expression  of  determination 
swept  all  traces  of  fear  from  his  features.  The  look 
of  dread  in  the  eyes  softened  to  that  of  resignation. 

"It  is  not  too  late,  I  will  save  him." 

There  was  a  note  of  earnestness  in  his  voice;  his 
form  straightened;  again  he  was  possessed  of  the 
courage  of  former  years. 

Could  he  at  that  moment  have  carried  his  purpose 
into  effect,  a  jury  would  never  have  been  called  to 
pass  upon  the  guilt  or  the  innocence  of  the  man  who, 
with  unwarranted  confidence,  awaited  the  hour  of 
his  trial;  but  with  a  vision  of  his  daughter  before 
him,  Van  Courtland's  impulse  to  declare  his  own 
guilt  died.  As  a  candle  light  is  snuffed  by  a  night 
breeze,  so  from  his  face  every  vestige  of  hope  disap- 


114         OBuelpn  $an  CourtlanD. 

peared: — the  haunted  look  returned  to  his  eyes,  and 
the  hopelessness  of  despair  settled  over  him. 

"Evelyn !" 

It  was  a  heart  crv,  lingering,  resolving  into  an 
echo  that  would  ring  forever.  Van  Courtland  sank 
into  a  chair.  A  knock  at  the  door  was  immediately 
answered,  and  James,  the  butler,  stood  on  the  thresh- 
old. 

"Did  you  call,  Sir?" 

"No,  James." 

"Excuse  me,  Sir.  I  was  passing  through  the  hall, 
and  thought  I  heard  you  call." 

"I  did  not  call.    You  may  close  the  door,  James." 

His  voice  was  low  and  natural,  and  when  the  ser- 
vant had  gone,  rage  drove  all  other  emotion  from  his 
mind. 

"Sometimes  I  feel  that  even  the  servants  know." 
His  eyes  were  on  the  door  that  the  butler  had  just 
closed;  his  voice  half  a  whisper.  "I  see  it  in  their 
faces,  I  feel  it  in  their  glances,  when,  at  dinner,  they 
stand  behind  my  chair.  Some  of  them  are  always 
within  call.  They  pass  me  on  the  stairway,  they 
come  to  the  library  on  trivial  excuses  to  spy  on  me. 
Perhaps  they  are  in  the  employ  of  the  leeches  of 
the  law,  and  a  pittance  of  what  I  pay  these  dogs  finds 
its  way  into  the  pockets  of  my  own  servants.  Blood 
money!  Stamped  on  the  heart  of  the  victim  who 
lives,  yet  who,  each  day,  goes  through  the  agony  of 
a  thousand  deaths." 


CourtlanD,         115 

His  features  became  convulsed,  and  he  resumed 
his  walk,  the  sound  of  his  footfalls  on  the  soft  carpet, 
like  the  tramp  of  an  encaged  beast,  dull  and  muffled. 
Apart  from  the  remorse  that  with  fatal  certainty  was 
undermining  his  reason,  another,  and  a  more  power- 
ful cause  increased  his  fear.  He  kept  himself  in- 
formed of  the  progress  the  prosecution  was  making, 
and  of  the  drift  of  public  opinion.  It  was  this  latter 
that,  as  the  day  of  trial  drew  near,  added  to  his 
alarm.  Directly  after  the  discovery  of  the  crime,  the 
public  clamored  for  the  conviction  of  the  accused. 
This  hysterical  outburst  was  followed  by  a  period  of 
doubt.  Then  came  the  endless  discussion  as  to  the 
motive  for  the  crime,  and  it  was  this  point  that  now 
occupied  the  public  mind.  Abashed  at  their  first 
hasty  judgment,  public  sentiment,  finding  voice 
through  the  press,  declared  Malcolm  innocent.  Who 
was  the  guilty  one  ?  What  was  the  motive  for  the 
crime  ?  None  could  answer.  There  had  been  covert 
allusions,  carefully  worded  articles  in  the  news- 
papers, that  had  not  escaped  Van  Courtland's  atten- 
tion. A  word,  line  or  paragraph  suggested,  more 
than  expressed,  the  possibility  that  Harlan's  life  had 
not  been  without  blemish;  that,  perhaps,  if — and 
here,  the  writer's  courage  failing  him,  he  would  hide 
behind  a  web  of  vague  allusions.  These  shafts,  which 
approached  the  truth  nearer  than  the  writer  dreamed, 
struck  deep  into  the  mind  of  Van  Courtland.  Daily 
he  had  read  them,  at  each  succeeding  reading  magni- 


116         OEtoelptt  l^an  Cotmianto* 

fying  their  importance,  until  he  saw  in  them  a  direct 
allusion  to  himself. 

Sitting  in  the  dimly  lighted  room,  the  solitude 
deepening  as  the  night  advanced,  his  brain  conjured 
the  scenes  and  incidents  of  the  past  months.  His 
distorted  vision  peopled  the  semi-darkness  of  the  far 
corners  of  the  room  with  the  forms  of  those  con- 
cerned in  the  tragedy  that  had  wrecked  his  own  life. 
Opposite  him,  in  the  fullness  of  ripe  manhood,  he 
seemed  to  see  the  handsome  features  of  his  late  part- 
ner, as  he  had  last  appeared  before  the  fatal  shot  was 
fired.  Tne  accusing  eyes  of  the  officers  of  the  law 
glared  at  him,  and  their  voiceless  charge:  "You  are 
guilty"  filled  him  with  terror.  Though  he  closed  his 
eyes  to  shut  out  the  sight,  their  jeering  laugh  rang 
in  his  ears.  Then  the  scene  changed.  The  mocking 
sound  followed  him  as,  journeying  through  the  night, 
he  was  borne  along  through  intersecting  streets, 
struggling  to  free  himself,  but  powerless  to  arrest  his 
progress.  Iron  doors  were  thrown  open  to  admit  him, 
then  clanged  upon  their  hinges ;  and  he  was  forced  to 
enter  some  unknown  stronghold,  garrisoned  by  the 
minions  of  the  law,  their  accusing  eyes  taunting  him 
of  his  guilt.  Hurried  along  through  endless  corri- 
dors, with  a  crash,  the  walls  before  him  parted.  There, 
sitting  on  the  edge  of  a  cot,  was  Malcolm,  his  head 
buried  in  his  hands.  With  a  shriek  of  terror,  Van 
Courtland  leaped  to  his  feet  The  vision  vanished. 
In  terror  he  looked  about  him.  Nothing  but  the  four 


OEtoelpn  $an  CourtlanD*         m 

walls  of  the  room,  the  luxurious  furnishings,  the  aw- 
ful silence,  that  was  unbroken  save  by  the  wild  beat- 
ing of  his  heart,  and  the  echo  of  the  avenging  voices : 
"You  are  guilty,  you,  you !" 

At  the  Wavily's  Evelyn  stood  chatting  with  the 
host.  Le  Moyne,  much  against  his  will,  had  been 
dragged  away  by  an  elderly  gentleman  to  act  as 
referee  on  a  question  of  local  civic  government.  With 
the  blindness,  even  the  recklessness  of  a  true  lover, 
except  when  exchanging  greetings  with  his  host,  he 
had  devoted  every  moment  to  Evelyn;  with  chagrin 
he  had  allowed  himself  to  be  led  away.  Evelyn  wel- 
comed the  opportunity  to  talk  with  their  host.  She 
felt  that  Le  Moyne's  unguarded  manner  might  cause 
comment,  and  for  many  reasons  this  was  what  she 
least  desired. 

"I  am  sorry,"  Wavily  was  saying,  "that  your 
father  is  indisposed.  His  close  attention  to  business, 
I  fear,  is  telling  on  his  health.  He  should  go  out 
more,  mix  with  the  younger  set.  Do  you  know,"  his 
eyes  laughing,  his  whole  expression  that  of  boyish 
exuberance,  "I  won't  allow  myself  to  grow  old. 
Never!  Why,  my  grandson  is  a  senior  at  Yale. 
Would  you  believe  it?  No!  of  course  not!  My 
formula  is  simple  and  as  old — well,  as  old  as  time! 
I  never  permit  anything  to  worry  me.  That's  my 
secret." 

Evelyn   smiled,   but  vouchsafed   no   reply.      The 


118         dEtoelpn  $an  CottrtlanD* 

kindly  blue  eyes  told  of  frank  admiration  that  it  is 
the  privilege  of  the  aged  to  express. 

"You  are  very  beautiful,  my  dear,"  he  remarked 
quietly,  his  glance  still  on  her  face.  "In  you  I  see 
the  reflection  of  your  mother's  beauty  as  I  knew  her 
twenty  or  more  years  ago.  You  will  excuse  me,  I 
know,  while  I  speak  to  Mr.  Belmont,"  and  he  hustled 
away,  his  white  hair  glistening,  his  step  as  elastic 
as  that  of  the  youngest  in  the  room. 

His  words  and  manner  charmed  her.  With  the 
freedom  of  age,  he  did  not  pause  to  consider  his 
topic,  nor  his  manner  of  expressing  his  views.  His 
abrupt  frankness,  however,  found  voice  only  when 
his  listener  awakened  his  interest. 

At  the  mention  of  her  mother's  name,  Evelyn's 
pleasure  was  at  an  end.  Must  she  constantly  be  re- 
minded, even  by  those  she  loved,  of  the  tragedy  in 
her  life  ?  Would  this  awful  thing  of  guilt,  of  shame, 
forever  menace  her  future  and  her  peace  of  mind, 
and  if,  even  for  a  moment,  she  dared  to  forget,  would 
some  voice  be  ready  to  recall  her  to  a  realization  of 
her  position  ? — that  she  was  the  daughter  of  a  woman 
who  had  given  the  world  the  right  to  trail  her  name 
in  the  mire.  Even  now — she  listened  against  her 
will. 

"Cherchez  la  femme — and — if  you  don't  discover 
the  motive  for  Mr.  Harlan's  death,  you  may  unearth 
a  very  pretty  romance." 

"Dear   me,"    came   the   fretful   reply,    "I    detest 


OEtielpn  $an  Cotirtlantu         119 

French  because  I  cannot  speak  it  properly.  How 
could  a  woman  possibly  have  anything  to  do  with  that 
unfortunate  affair  ?" 

Evelyn,  who  was  sitting  where  she  could  observe 
the  others,  flashed  a  glance  of  apprehension  at  the 
first  speaker.  She  noted  the  shrug  of  the  shapely 
shoulders;  the  uplifting  of  the  eyebrows;  the  con- 
scious smile  that  preceded  the  words : 

"My  dear,  all  men  are — well,  if  not  exactly  lack- 
ing in  moral  rectitude,  at  least  devoid  of  healthy 
moral  tone.  Some  women  are  indiscreet.  A  com- 
bination of  both  entered  into  the  Harlan  affair." 

"Do  you  really  mean  there  was  a ?" 

"It  will  all  come  out  at  the  trial.  By  the  way, 
as  everybody  knows,  Major  Strong  is  to  conduct  the 
defence.  Mr.  Malcolm  hasn't  the  means  to  employ 
him.  Who  then— 

"Another  woman  in  the  case,  of  course.  They  say 
he's  handsome." 

"So  I've  heard — and  brilliant.  He  moved  in  our 
set,  though  I  never  met  him.  Never  had  the  good 
fortune.  Sh !  not  a  word !"  and  the  heads  of  the  two 
women  sought  a  confidential  range. 

"I'm  going  to  attend  the  trial  I" 

The  other  drew  back  becomingly  shocked. 

"You  daren't!" 

The  voice  was  incautiously  loud.  After  deliver- 
ing a  deserved  reprimand,  the  first  speaker  continued : 

"Yes,  I  do  dare.     They  tell  me  Mr.  Malcolm  has 


120         dEDelpn  i^an  CotmlanD. 


a  perfectly  elegant  manner,  and  is  quite  incapable 
of  committing  a  crime.  Oh,  no  one  believes  now 
that  he  is  guilty.  There  is  a  delicious  scandal  tucked 
away,  and  'twill  all  come  out  at  the  trial." 

"But,  dear,  think  of  going  to  a  horrid  court  room, 
filled  with  all  sorts  of  vulgar  people." 

"How  simple  you  are!  What  is  the  annoyance 
of  meeting  these  people  compared  to  what  one  will 
hear  !  Of  course,  Mr.  Van  Courtland  will  be  put  on 
the  stand,  and  then  you  may  expect  something  worth 
while.  I  would  rather  forego  a  season  of  opera  than 
miss  this  trial.  And  what  a  social  lion  Mr.  Malcolm 
will  be  should  he  be  acquitted." 

Evelyn,  with  flushed  face,  welcomed  the  return  of 
her  host,  who  took  a  seat  beside  her. 

"As  I  was  saying,  my  dear,"  he  began,  as  though 
continuing  an  interrupted  conversation,  "It  does  not 
do  for  one  of  my  age  to  worry.  I  am  nearly  seventy. 
Think  of  it!  but  I  don't  feel  my  years.  Not  at  all. 
Now  your  father  has  a  highly  nervous  temperament. 
He  worries.  That's  not  good.  I  have  noticed  re- 
cently that  he  appears  overworked.  Take  him  abroad 
for  a  month's  rest  Sea  air  will  do  him  good." 

Here  then  was  the  confirmation  of  her  fears.  Her 
father's  mental  condition  had  become  known  to  his 
friends.  It  was  but  a  matter  of  time  till  the  public, 
too,  would  become  aware  of  his  true  state.  What  could 
she  do  to  avert  the  danger?  Each  succeeding  day 
added  to  the  vagaries  and  delusions  that  were  making 


Coiirtlanli*         121 

his  life  a  torment.  How  would  it  all  end  ?  Might 
he  not  in  an  unguarded  moment  betray  himself? 
She  suppressed  the  shudder  that  came  with  the 
thought. 

"I  have  been  concerned  about  Papa  for  some 
time,"  she  said  quietly.  "He  confines  himself  too 
closely  to  business." 

"Exactly,  my  dear.  The  brain  is  like  the  most 
delicate  piece  of  mechanism,  and  quite  as  easily 
thrown  out  of  running.  Of  late  I  have  noticed  his 
highly  excited  state.  A  few  weeks  of  change  is  what 
he  needs.  It  will  work  wonders.  Ah,  Mr.  Le  Moyne, 
sit  here." 

Le  Moyne  took  the  proffered  seat.  He  greeted  his 
host  with  an  air  of  charming  deference,  but  with  a 
touch  of  seriousness  that  was  foreign  to  him.  Some- 
thing had  evidently  disturbed  his  habitual  tran- 
quillity. Evelyn  marvelled ;  their  host  smiled. 

"I  take  it,  Le  Moyne,"  his  pale  gray  eyes  were 
dancing  with  mischief,  "my  guests  have  disposed  of 
the  Malcolm  case  to  their  entire  satisfaction.  O, 
I  heard  their  arguments  from  a  safe  distance.  They 
have  declared  him  innocent.  Have  they  not  ?" 

"Yes,"  Le  Moyne  laughed,  "and  indicted  me  for 
daring  to  prosecute.  To  what  extremes  the  human 
mind  can  reach !" 

"The  day  after  Harlan's  death,"  "Wavily  added, 
"these  same  people  would  have  hanged  young  Mal- 
colm ;  to-day" — he  turned  to  Evelyn — "I  believe  this 


122         OEtoelpn  l^an  Couttland* 

revulsion  of  feeling  came  with  the  discovery  that  the 
young  fellow  is  handsome.  What  is  your  opinion, 
my  dear,  as  to  his  guilt  ?" 

Evelyn's  cheeks  grew  scarlet;  then  as  quickly  the 
color  receded.  "I" — she  faltered,  "I  hardly  think 
my  opinion  would  be  of  value.  At  any  rate,  I  feel 
it  would  not  be  just  even  to  express  it." 

"Diplomatic,  my  dear,  but  the  exact  answer  I 
might  expect  from  your  father.  Just  what  he  would 
have  said." 

Evelyn  felt  Le  Moyne's  glance.  Though  she  strug- 
gled to  retain  her  composure,  she  knew  the  blood  was 
mounting  to  her  cheeks.  She  made  an  attempt  to 
turn  the  conversation  into  other  channels,  but  the 
topic  that  engrossed  the  guests,  and  filled  Evelyn 
with  nervous  dread,  had  taken  firm  hold  of  Wavily's 
mind. 

"Now,  seriously,"  he  said,  laying  a  fatherly  hand 
on  Le  Moyne's  shoulder,  "You  don't  believe  you  can 
convict  the  young  man  ?" 

"I  most  certainly  do,"  was  the  confident  reply. 

"Upon  the  evidence?" 

"Yes." 

His  voice  had  a  ring  of  confidence.  Hoping  for 
a  word  or  a  look  of  encouragement,  he  endeavored  to 
meet  Evelyn's  glance,  but  his  attempt  was  futile. 

"I  admire  your  courage."  The  look  Wavily  cast 
at  the  young  attorney  endorsed  his  words.  "You  go 
about  your  work  with  proper  spirit,  but,"  he  lowered 


IPan  Courtland,         123 

his  voice  to  a  confidential  tone,  "I  hear  it  whispered 
that  suspicion  now  points  to  another  than  Malcolm." 

In  Evelyn's  eyes  a  look  of  sudden  alarm  flashed, 
smouldered  and  died;  an  involuntary  movement, 
quickly  suppressed,  and  her  power  of  will  triumphed. 
What  mastery  over  emotion  was  hers !  Was  it  the 
witchery  of  art,  or  the  touch  of  nature,  which,  in 
former  years,  had  found  its  highest  expression  in 
Van  Courtland's  every  thought  and  act  ?  The  young 
girl's  self-command  seemed  unnatural — almost  super- 
human. Like  a  general  marshalling  his  forces,  after 
being  routed  by  a  sudden  attack,  she  soon  had  herself 
under  control.  Wavily's  head  slightly  inclined  to- 
wards his  guest,  his  attitude  one  of  expectancy.  He 
evidently  expected  Le  Moyne  to  confirm  the  rumor  he 
had  voiced.  Evelyn  did  not  see  him.  She  looked 
quickly  into  the  face  of  the  young  attorney.  What 
did  she  read  there?  His  features  were  sphinx-like 
in  their  utter  lack  of  expression.  Again  fear  swept 
over  her.  What  did  his  stolid  demeanor  portend  ? 
Was  it  because  of ? 

"My  dear  Mr.  Wavily,"  his  voice  was  colorless, 
"What  you  have  heard  are  silly  tales,  hardly  worthy 
of  a  denial." 

"But  suppose  Malcolm  be  acquitted  ?" 

"If  such  be  the  result  of  the  trial,  it  is  my  belief 
the  case  will  be  closed." 

"O,  you  lawyers  are  a  shrewd  lot.  Are  they  not, 
Evelyn?  Say  yes,  my  dear.  We  must  combine 


124         OEtoelpn  $an  CourtlanD* 

against  the  common  enemy.  They  worm  from  us 
all  we  know,  then  charge  us  a  double  fee,  because 
we  haven't  more  to  tell  them.  Perhaps  the  next 
client  tells  them  nothing,  and  they  make  a  case  out 
of  it,  and  they  win  it,  too.  That  may  sound  para- 
doxical, but  it  is  a  fact." 

With  a  laugh  he  turned  away. 

For  the  remainder  of  the  evening,  Le  Moyne 
seemed  to  be  existing  in  an  atmosphere  of  strange 
delight,  bordering  on  ecstacy.  Never  tad  Evelyn 
been  more  brilliant,  her  manner  so  full  of  soft,  se- 
ductive little  touches.  His  courage  rose.  The  warm 
glow  in  her  cheek,  the  new  light  in  her  eye,  the 
resonant  note  in  her  voice,  softly,  mildly  triumphant 
— surely  he  had  a  right  to  believe,  he  did  believe  that 
his  passion  was  awakening  a  response.  Dare  he 
speak  to  her  of  his  love  ?  No,  not  till  he  could  come 
to  her  glorified  by  victory.  She  would  listen,  he  knew 
— else  why  her  new  tenderness  of  manner,  half-timid, 
half -confiding.  What  did  it  mean  ?  Did  she  read 
in  his  eyes  the  struggle  of  a  passion  held  in  restraint  ? 

She  smiled,  conscious  of  a  new  feeling  of  security. 

"You  have  had  your  hands  full  to-night,"  she 
said.  "The  gentlemen  seem  to  be  arrayed  against 
you." 

"That  isn't  the  worst  of  it!  The  ladies  have 
taken  up  Malcolm's  defence.  The  bank  accounts  of 
at  least  ten  are  at  the  disposal  of  his  attorney." 


$att  CourtlattD.         125 

"Perhaps  Mr.  Malcolm  doesn't  require  their  aid," 
she  remarked  lightly. 

"It  would  appear  not.  In  any  case,  he  would  re- 
fuse it." 

"Is  he  then  such  a  chivalrous  being?" 

"Yes ;  he  was  always  an  odd  sort." 

"Tell  me  more  of  him." 

Her  seeming  indifference  suggested  only  that  the 
recital  might  amuse  her. 

"At  college  he  was  prominent  in  athletics;  but 
in  other  ways  wholly  unlike  the  average  student. 
I  can't  say  that  I  ever  understood  him.  In  fact, 
no  one  did.  It  was  said  he  paid  his  way  through 
college  compiling  material,  working  as  a  proof- 
reader, for  a  law  publishing  firm.  He  was  much 
in  demand  as  a  private  tutor  also,  for  he  was  a  front- 
rank  student.  His  standard  of  honor,  what  was 
termed  his  'far-fetched'  ideas — a  romantic  idealism 
that  belonged  to  the  last  century — acted  as  a  check 
to  anything  approaching  intimacy.  It  was  under- 
stood that  he  would  take  up  the  profession  of  law, 
but  through  the  influence  of  a  student,  who  owed  his 
degree  to  Malcolm's  tutoring,  he  was  given  a  place 
as  clerk  in  your  father's  banking  house.  There  is 
nothing  further  to  tell." 

They  were  comparatively  alone,  the  other  guests 
being  grouped  in  and  about  the  music-room,  listen- 
ing to  a  noted  singer. 

"This  person,  who  said  he  passed  Malcolm  on  the 


126         OEtoelpn  ^an  CourtlanD* 

street  the  night  of  Mr.  Harlan's  death — might  he 
not  be  mistaken?" 

She  was  smoothing  out  a  bit  of  lace  on  her  gown 
that  had  become  disarranged.  He  could  not  see  her 
face;  her  voice  was  languid. 

"Hardly/'"  he  replied.  "He  had  reason  to  remem- 
ber him.  It  was  Malcolm's  herculean  strength  that 
once  saved  the  fellow  from  instant  death.  An  eleva- 
tor accident  of  some  sort  No,  the  man  is  certain 
as  to  the  identity,  but  it  really  proved  nothing." 

A  queer  smile  played  about  the  corners  of  her 
mouth;  a  glance  that  approached  pitying  scorn  was 
hidden  by  drooping  eyelids.  She  turned  to  him  with 
an  air  of  weariness. 

"Come,  let  us  go,"  she  said. 

They  made  their  way  through  the  crowded  rooms 
to  their  host.  He  met  them  with  his  customary 
smile. 

"You  must  come  to  see  me,  my  dear,  and  bring 
your  father  along.  We'll  have  an  evening  all  to 
ourselves.  Oh,"  he  laughed,  as  he  noted  Le  Moyne's 
crestfallen  air,  "you  may  be  one  of  the  party,  on 
condition  that  you  don't  talk  law  to  us,  and — this 
is  an  after  thought — you  don't  convict  that  young 
man." 

His  glance  followed  them  to  the  street. 

"Le  Moyne  is  a  lucky  fellow,"  he  mused.  "What 
a  charming  young  creature  she  is!  Van  Courtland 


CoiirtlanD,         127 

should  be  vastly  proud  of  her.     No  doubt  he  is — 

but  what  a  pity  her  mother " 

He  looked  about  him  and  shook  his  head.  "It 
requires  an  effort  nowadays  to  retain  one's  faith  in 
human  nature.  But  Evelyn  is  a  beautiful  girl.  I 
wonder  if  she  really  cares  for  Le  Moyne." 


128         Cfcelptt  $an  CotmlattH. 


CHAPTER  X. 

'^EIGHTEEN  hours  more !  Let  me  see !  It  is  now 
four  o'clock."  Malcolm  stood  in  the  center  of  his 
cell  and  again  calculated  the  number  of  hours  be- 
fore the  opening  of  his  trial.  "Yes,  eighteen  is 
correct,"  he  muttered.  "A  day  or  a  week  or  what- 
ever time  it  may  please  the  Government  to  consume 
in  proving  me  guilty,  will  be  a  welcome  diversion. 
I  may  as  well  give  up  hope  of  seeing  Major  Strong 
to-day.  He  is  thoroughly  disgusted  with  me.  I 
don't  blame  him — how  could  I  ?  What  a  fine  fellow 
he  is!  He  tries  to  be  very  harsh,  but  doesn't  suc- 
ceed— his  innate  gentleness  stands  in  the  way.  Who 
has  employed  him  to  defend  me?  That's  the  ques- 
tion !  When  I  am  discharged " 

For  the  first  time  since  his  arrest  his  sublime  con- 
fidence seemed  to  appeal  to  his  sense  of  humor.  He 
laughed  softly.  "I  suppose  they  have  me  hedged 
in  with  a  network  of  circumstantial  evidence — and 
lies.  But  they  have  yet  to  reckon  with  the  Major. 
I  must  see  more  of  him  when  I  am  free  again.  If 
he  puts  me  on  the  witness  stand — well,  he  already 
knows  all  that  I  can  or  will  testify  to.  This  much 


OEtoelptt  $an  CourtlanD*         129 

is  certain — they'll  never  find  out  from  me  more  than 
I  have  told  the  Major.  I  wish  he'd  come." 

His  tone  was  rueful.  He  paced  his  cell  in  medi- 
tative silence  for  some  moments,  then  paused  in  his 
walk. 

"I  believe  he  is  the  only  human  being  I  ever 
feared.  His  eyes  seem  to  pry  open  every  secret  de- 
pository of  the  mind,  and  my  thoughts  are  laid  bare 
for  dissection.  When  with  him  I  feel  he  is  aware 
of  every  indiscretion  of  my  past  life.  I'd  like  to 
see  him,  and  talk  with  him — it  does  one's  heart 
good;  but  he  strikes  too  near  the  truth — in  fact,  I 
believe  he  already  knows  it." 

His  cogitations  were  here  interrupted  by  the 
sound  of  steps  in  the  corridor.  He  listened,  a  smile 
of  pleasure  lighting  up  his  features.  The  steps  halt- 
ed before  the  door  which,  after  a  moment's  delay, 
was  thrown  open.  The  Major  entered  briskly,  his 
face  beaming  with  good  nature. 

"Well,"  he  said,  as  Malcolm  grasped  the  extended 
hand,  "how  are  you?" 

His  brusque  tone  and  manner  had  no  other  effect 
on  his  client  than  to  increase  his  pleasure.  His 
smile  broadened. 

"Em!"  the  Major  growled,  "complacent  as  ever." 

"I  was  worried,"  Malcolm  rejoined,  "fearing  you 
could  not  find  time  to  come  to-day." 

"Worried!      Quite   so!"     The  tone  was  unsym- 


130         OEtoelpn  $an  Courtiantu 

pathetic.  "I  believe  you  rather  enjoy  your  position. 
As  for  worry " 

He  laughed,  then,  after  they  were  seated,  asked 
abruptly : 

"You  were  something  of  an  athlete  at  college  ?" 

"I  kept  in  fair  physical  condition." 

"What  new  line  of  attack  is  this?"  he  mused. 
The  Major  was  evidently  preparing  his  next  ques- 
tion. 

"There  was  an  accident  in  a  hotel  where  you 
formerly  lived.  You  saved  one  of  the  servants  from 
injury.  When  was  that  ?" 

"Over  a  year  ago.  It  was  nothing,  the  fellow 
wasn't  hurt." 

"Where  did  it  happen  ?" 

Malcolm  mentioned  the  name  of  the  hotel,  then 
fell  to  conjecturing  what  direct  connection  lay  be- 
tween an  elevator  accident  and  his  present  predica- 
ment 

"You  were  instrumental  in  saving  this  man's 
life?" 

"Nonsense!  I  simply  held  the  elevator  while 
they  pulled  him  from  beneath  it" 

"Em !     What's  the  fellow's  name  ?" 

"My  dear  Major,  what  has  a  slight  injury  to  a 
servant  to  do " 

"His  name  was  what  I  asked  for,"  the  Major  in- 
terrupted. 

"Carl.    I've  forgotten  his  other  name." 


l^an  CourtlanD*         131 

"Is  he  still  employed  about  the  hotel  ?" 

"He  was  the  last  time  I  saw  him." 

"That  was  when  ?" 

"Let  me  see — about  a  month  before  Harlan's 
death,  I  believe." 

"Now,  you  know  this  man  pretty  well  ?  You  saw 
him  often  about  the  hotel  ?" 

"Nearly  every  day  for  months." 

"Tell  me  what  you  know  of  him — his  personality, 
his  history — anything  you  may  have  heard  from 
him  or  from  others." 

"What  possible  interest  can  I  have  in  this  fel- 
low's concerns?" 

"You  may  have  none ;  I  have." 

Malcolm  had  expected,  and  waa  prepared,  for 
open  warfare,  but  he  now  feared  the  wily  lawyer  was 
leading  him  into  an  ambush.  With  a  wary  eye  on 
the  attorney,  he  cautiously  proceeded  to  answer. 

"I  remember  the  man  principally  because  he  an- 
noyed me  by  his  extravagant  expressions  of  grati- 
tude. He  believed  I  saved  his  life — which  was 
absurd." 

"Em!"  growled  the  Major,  then  he  mused: — 
"This  man  Carl  is  an  ingrate.  He  either  loves 
money,  or  is  in  the  power  of  the  police,  probably  the 
latter." 

"Did  you  know  of  his  having  trouble  with  the 
authorities  ?" 

The  younger  man  thought  a  moment. 


132         OEtielpn  ipan  CourtlanD, 

"Yes,  there  was  some  trouble,  I've  forgotten  the 
nature  of  it.  Through  the  influence  of  the  hotel 
owner  the  matter  was  hushed  up." 

The  Major  smiled.  "Xot  a  bad  conjecture,"  he 
mused.  "That  is  all  I  want  to  know  of  Carl  for  the 
present  I  think  I  will  play  on  the  young  man's 
nerves  for  a  while.  If  I  can  provoke  him,  and  break 
his  confounded  calm,  I  may  learn  something."  He 
surveyed  the  man  before  him  with  a  cold,  calculat- 
ing eye. 

"You  know  who  murdered  Harlan!  Why  don't 
you  tell  me?" 

How  the  voice  cut !  It  was  like  a  whip  lash ! 
And  the  glance  that  accompanied  it,  scoffing,  satiri- 
cal, implied  knowledge  held  in  reserve,  of  power  yet 
to  be  exercised. 

Malcolm  was  as  unprepared  for  the  assertion  as 
he  was  for  the  brutal  abruptness  with  which  the 
question  was  asked.  His  face  became  scarlet,  and 
he  made  an  involuntary  movement  to  rise. 

"That  shot  told,"  was  the  Major's  mental  com- 
ment. "It  hurt,  too." 

"Major,  I- 

"You  saw  the  man  enter  Harlan's  grounds  who, 
later,  killed  him.  You  knew  him  when  you  passed 
him — for  you  did  pass  him.  So  far  you  may  as 
well  admit  that  what  I  say  is  absolutely  correct. 
Now  will  you  tell  me  his  name?" 

The  set  expression  on  the  features  of  the  two  men 


$att  Courtlantr*         133 

was  that  of  combatants  arrayed  in  mortal  conflict. 
Only  in  this  case,  however,  the  unique  spectacle  was 
presented  of  attorney  and  client — the  latter  to  be 
tried  for  his  life,  the  former  endeavoring  to  wrest 
from  the  accused  man  information  that  would  be 
an  absolute  defense.  The  ludicrous  side  of  the  situ- 
ation had  not  escaped  the  Major. 

"Well,"  he  queried,  chuckling  inwardly,  "will 
you  answer?" 

"No !"  Malcolm  had  taken  time  to  recover.  His 
voice  was  calm. 

"Em!"  the  Major  tartly  rejoined,  "I  didn't  be- 
lieve you  would." 

A  sullen  silence  followed.  Whatever  the  Major's 
exterior  showed,  his  line  of  thought  was  far  pleas- 
anter.  His  active  mind  galloped  along  into  the  fu- 
ture; but  he  kept  a  furtive  eye,  meanwhile,  on  his 
unresponsive  client. 

"If  I  clear  this  young  devil,"  he  thought,  "and  I 
certainly  shall,  for  no  sane  jury  will  fail  to  see  that 
he  is  shielding  someone,  I'll  take  him  into  my  office. 
That  is,  if  he'll  consent.  Unquestionably,  he  is  the 
most  stubborn  proposition  that  I  have  ever  en- 
countered. Perhaps  that  is  why  I  admire  him." 

Quick  as  a  flash,  and  without  warning,  he 
launched  the  next  shaft. 

"The  man  you  are  shielding  is  close  to  you  in 
business  or  social  life?" 

As  Malcolm  refused  to  reply,  the  Major  resumed, 


134         (Etoelpn  t^an  CourtlanD* 


a  mild  sneer  behind  his  words,  his  tone  and  manner 
pointedly  offensive. 

"You  needn't  trouble  yourself  to  deny  my  state- 
ment. University  life  may  have  taught  you  to  lift 
elevators,  but  the  art  of  lying  can't  be  so  easily 
acquired.  Don't  attempt  it  —  you'd  be  a  pronounced 
failure.  Young  man,  to  lie  successfully  requires  a 
greater  degree  of  intelligence  than  it  does  to  become 
Prime  Minister  of  England.  What  is  more,  one 
must  be  born  with  the  satanic  gift.  You  are  sin- 
gularly deficient  in  it." 

The  speaker  watched  the  flame  of  anger  dancing 
in  the  eyes  of  his  listener.  "Splendid!"  he  mused, 
"I  suppose  my  age  and  gray  hairs  alone  save  me 
from  being  thrown  into  the  corridor.  I'll  try  a  lit- 
tle more  vitriol  —  stir  the  fire,  as  it  were!  I  think, 
though,  I'll  first  give  him  time  to  cool  down  a  bit. 
What  a  magnificent  picture  he  makes  !  I'd  fight  for 
his  life  —  physically,  if  occasion  demanded." 

A  short  silence  followed,  broken  at  intervals  by 
the  sound  from  the  corridors  of  muffled  footfalls,  a 
suppressed  groan,  or  a  sigh  —  that  hovered  on  the  air 
as  though  loath  to  die. 

•  "Don't  imagine,"  the  Major's  voice  was  ominous- 
ly distinct,  "that  you  will  succeed  in  your  determina- 
tion. The  woman  for  whom  -  " 

The  Major  got  no  further.  Malcolm  was  on  his 
feet,  his  eyes  aflame,  his  attitude  threatening. 

"Stop!"  he  said,  hoarsely,  endeavoring  to  control 


CourtlanD*         135 

his  anger.  "Major  Strong,  you  came  with  an  offer 
to  defend  me.  I  was  grateful.  But  one  word  more 
on  the  line  you  are  pursuing,  and  I  shall  decline 
your  services  and  go  to  trial  without  counsel." 

"Don't  get  excited,  my  dear  Malcolm,  another 
word  in  that  direction  is  quite  unnecessary." 

Malcolm  walked  nervously  up  and  down  the  nar- 
row cell.  Appearances  might  indicate  that  attorney 
and  client  were  dangerously  near  an  open  rupture. 
On  the  features  of  the  young  man  was  stamped  a 
look  of  dogged  determination.  The  mouth  was  firm- 
ly closed,  the  nostrils  dilated,  the  step  firm — his 
whole  aspect  that  of  one  ready  for  physical  encoun- 
ter. The  older  man,-  even  in  appearance,  was  the 
embodiment  of  smiling  complacency. 

The  result  of  his  interview  with  his  client  might 
appear,  to  one  not  familiar  with  legal  tactics,  of 
doubtful  worth ;  but  at  that  moment  the  lawyer  was 
filled  with  warm  satisfaction.  His  client  believed 
that  the  Major  had  signally  and  ignominiously 
failed  to  discover  the  evidence  he  sought;  but  the 
keen  lawyer  was  filled  with  the  joy  of  success.  He 
could,  at  that  moment,  have  named  the  murderer  of 
Marshall  Harlan. 

How  aUke  were  the  thoughts  of  the  two  men! 
With  what  astonishing  precision  their  minds  moved 
along  parallel  lines !  Somehow,  by  a  mental  process, 
inexplicable,  yet  absolute  in  its  certainty,  each  was 
aware  of  what  was  revolving  in  the  mind  of  the 


136         (Etoelpn  $an  CourtlanD* 


other.  If  their  eyes  met,  the  glance  was  as  eloquent 
as  the  unspoken  words:  — 

"Yes,  I  am  considering  the  same  subject  —  I  know 
the  facts  as  well  as  you.  It  is  only  your  point  of 
view  that  differs." 

The  Major  cast  an  impatient  glance  of  disapprov- 
al at  the  young  man,  which  was  met  by  a  flash  of 
defiance. 

"You're  not  particularly  pleased  with  my  method 
of  procuring  evidence?"  the  Major  suavely  de- 
manded. 

"No,  I'm  not,"  was  the  terse  reply. 

"You  see,"  the  Major's  manner  had  become  pa- 
cific, even  courteous,  "you  see,  we  lawyers  aren't 
very  particular  how  we  get  the  evidence  we  want  — 
if  we  only  get  it  But  we  must  do  that,  you  know. 
It's  our  business.  If  we  don't  get  the  evidence,  we 
don't  earn  our  fee." 

No  sooner  had  he  mentioned  the  word  "fee"  than 
he  realized  his  mistake.  He  had  inadvertently 
opened  the  subject,  and  Malcolm  was  quick  to  take 
advantage  of  it. 

"Now  you  mention  the  subject  of  fees,"  he  said, 
"I  think  we  ought  to  discuss  the  question.  Of 
course,  when  I  regain  my  liberty,  I  shall  insist  on 
repaying  the  person,  or  persons,  who  have  retained 
you  in  my  defense." 

"Commendable,  quite  so.  However,  this  is  hard- 
ly the  time  to  consider  the  matter.  My  dear  Mai- 


OEtoelpn  $att  CotmlanD,         137 

colm,  you  lose  sight  of  one  very  important  point. 
You  are  not  free,  neither  are  you  making  any  serious 
effort  to  assist  me  in  obtaining  that  very  desirable 
result." 

The  justice  of  the  attorney's  remarks  seemed  to 
strike  Malcolm  with  new  and  overwhelming  force. 
The  blood  mounted  to  his  cheeks.  An  impulse  to 
tell  the  Major  what  he  knew  took  possession  of  him. 
For  an  instant  it  swayed,  controlled  him.  The 
Major's  interest  in  his  behalf  touched  him  deeply. 
His  tantalizing  manner  while  questioning  him  had 
not  aroused  his  anger;  it  was  the  humiliating  con- 
sciousness that,  with  or  without  his  assistance,  his 
companion  suspected  or  knew  the  truth.  Malcolm 
was  harassed,  ill  at  ease,  not  knowing  from  what 
point  he  would  be  next  attacked,  and  suspense  only 
added  to  this  feeling  of  irritation. 

The  Major  suddenly  rose. 

"You  are  going  ?"  asked  Malcolm. 

"Yes,  I  can't  see  how  I  can  accomplish  anything 
further." 

As  the  Major  prepared  to  go,  did  the  wistful 
glance  that  followed  his  movements  escape  him  ?  Or 
when  he  walked  toward  the  door,  did  he  attach  any 
significance  to  the  involuntary  movement  of  the 
young  man,  as  if  the  impulse  to  detain  him  were 
irresistible  ?  Perhaps  so ;  but  whatever  his  thoughts, 
the  attorney's  manner  was  not  reassuring. 


138         dftjelpn  $att  Courtlantr* 


"Don't  think  too  harshly  of  me,  Major.  If  I  can- 
not give  you  all  the  information  you  desire  — 

"If  you  cannot  give  me!"  The  Major's  tone  of 
mock  surprise  died  into  a  chuckle.  "My  dear  boy, 
you  have  given  it  to  me.  Good-night." 

"I  wonder,"  mused  the  turnkey,  as  he  let  the  visi- 
tor out,  "if  the  Major's  laughing  at  one  of  his  own 
jokes  ?" 

"You  cannot  frighten  that  young  devil,"  chuckled 
the  Major  as  he  stepped  into  the  street,  "neither  can 
you  rattle  him.  I  nearly  had  him  going  before  I 
left.  If  I'd  cared  to  get  the  story  from  him,  I  had 
only  to  appeal  to  his  sense  of  honor.  Appeal  is  the 
word.  But  what  do  I  want  of  his  story  ?  I  already 
know  it." 

A  little  before  midnight  Evelyn,  after  bidding  her 
father  an  affectionate  "good-night"  and  begging  him 
to  immediately  retire,  went  to  her  own  room.  Early 
in  the  evening  she  had  sent  a  note  of  regret  to  Le 
Moyne,  who  had  arranged  to  call,  pleading  her 
father's  illness  as  an  excuse  for  not  receiving  him. 
Though  her  father's  condition  justified  her  course, 
it  was  not  the  only  reason  that  moved  her.  She  had 
reached  a  point  where  her  deception  filled  her  not 
only  with  an  increasing  sense  of  loathing,  but  with 
a  nervous  dread  of  discovery.  During  her  last  few 
interviews  with  Le  Moyne,  an  insane  desire  prompt- 
ed her  at  times  to  throw  off  the  mask,  to  confess  to 


$an  Courtlantu         139 

him  her  deception.  His  words  of  reproach  she 
would  have  welcomed,  knowing  her  deceit  to  be  at  an 
end;  her  days  and  her  nights  would  not  be  filled 
with  humiliating  self-reproach.  No  longer  need  she 
practice  the  arts,  the  petty  devices,  that  sent  the 
blood  to  her  cheeks,  nor  pursue  a  course  that  threat- 
ened to  cloud  her  name  and  her  future  with  a  stig- 
ma that  could  never  be  removed. 

On  her  lips  trembled  her  mother's  name.  Her 
father's  accusation  seemed  to  ring  in  her  ears,  and 
she  could  hear  her  mother's  voice  demanding  of  her 
if  she  had  heard — if  she  believed  ?  The  lines  of  the 
beautiful  face  hardened.  The  shadow  of  a  smile 
died  upon  the  lips — it  had  been  the  mirth  of  the 
damned — those  who  have  surrendered  all,  and  re- 
joice that  they  have  nothing  further  to  lose.  Men 
who  reacli  that  state  of  mind  deliberately  set  about 
destroying  their  body,  their  intellect,  until  nothing 
is  left  but  the  shell — even  memory  is  dead.  Women 
pawn  their  souls. 


CHAPTER  XL 

LONG  before  the  hour  set  for  the  Malcolm  trial, 
the  court  room  was  crowded.  Lawyers,  court  officers 
and  clerks  filled  the  enclosed  space  set  apart  for 
those  concerned  in  the  trial.  Outside  the  railing 
was  massed  a  motley  crowd.  Young  and  old,  rich 
and  poor,  elbowed  their  way,  and  pressed  forward 
to  a  place  of  vantage — crowding  their  neighbors, 
fretful,  impatient,  wondering  at  the  delay,  their 
minds  filled  with  the  sense  of  awe  that  Halls  of 
Justice  inspire. 

They  whispered  to  each  other  under  their  breath, 
clothing  the  empty  seats  of  the  judges  with  the  mys- 
terious sovereignty  of  the  law.  What  appealed  to 
some  as  the  safeguard  of  human  rights,  lending  to 
the  imagination  a  sense  of  reverence,  to  others  ap- 
peared only  as  an  all  powerful,  soulless  abode  of 
oppression,  where  the  poor  were  ignored,  and  liberty 
regulated  by  an  arbitrary  enforcement  of  might. 

When  the  coming  centuries  have  divorced  law  and 
wealth,  and  right  is  founded  upon  the  conscience 
of  the  human  race,  then  law  will  be  a  most  beautiful 
and  simple  machine,  not  requiring  the  aid  of  an 


$an  CotmiattD, 

army  of  tinkers  to  repair  the  cogs  in  its  present 
rickety  anatomy. 

The  court  room  presented  a  festive  air.  A  man 
was  to  be  tried  for  his  life.  This  fact,  in  itself, 
might  be  supposed  to  lend  a  tone  of  seriousness  to 
the  occasion,  but  it  did  not 

You  have  seen  a  horse  fall  and  lie  prostrate  in 
the  street.  Immediately  it  is  surrounded  by  a  gap- 
ing mass  of  people,  watching  the  animal  kick  and 
writhe  in  pain.  What  impels  those  who  pause  to 
look  at  the  animal?  Curiosity — simple,  vulgar 
curiosity.  The  same  feeling  moved  the  greater  num- 
ber that  filled  the  court  room.  They  had  come  to 
see  a  fellow  creature  tried  for  murder.  The  specta- 
tors were  possessed  of  the  morbid  desire  to  look  upon 
the  accused,  watch  him  while  the  evidence  unrolled; 
see  him  smile  or  cringe — observe  the  discomfort  of 
the  witnesses,  and  wait  for  the  climax  of  the  great 
life  drama  when  the  jury  would  pronounce  him  in- 
nocent or  guilty. 

Mingled  with  the  old  guard,  that  had  not  missed 
a  murder  trial  for  a  decade,  were  those  who  had 
never  before  entered  a  criminal  court,  Harlan's 
friends  and  business  intimates,  men  and  women  from 
the  upper  walks  of  life,  mingled  with  those  who  came 
to  be  entertained  or  to  gloat  over  the  disclosures  that 
the  trial  promised. 

"This  is  the  seventeenth  murder  trial  that  I  have 
attended," 


142         OEtoelpn  $an  CourtlanD, 

The  speaker,  a  sedate,  elderly  man,  sitting  in  a 
front  seat,  was  relating  his  experiences  to  his  next 
neighbor.  His  listener  looked  at  him  with  a  becom- 
ing show  of  envy. 

"You  don't  say,"  was  the  awed  response. 

"Yes,  I  never  miss  one  of  any  note.  Of  course, 
I  don't  bother  with  common,  every-day  defendants. 
They  can't  hire  a  lawyer  that  amounts  to  anything, 
and  it  isn't  worth  while  wasting  time  to  attend." 

"Wait  till  Major  Strong  gets  after  some  of  the 
Government's  witnesses.  Then  we  may  expect  some- 
thing." 

At  that  moment  the  Major  entered  through  a  side 
door,  and  seated  himself  at  the  table  reserved  for 
the  defendant's  attorney.  His  manner  was  the  same 
as  if  he  were  about  to  consult  with  Betts — calm, 
courteous,  with  just  the  suspicion  of  a  twinkle  in 
the  gray  eyes.  He  appeared  as  he  might  had  he 
just  seen  the  point  of  a  joke  which  had  before  es- 
caped him. 

The  buzz  of  recognition  which  swept  the  court 
room  subsided.  The  Major  turned  to  a  brother  at- 
torney, and  conversed  with  him  in  low  tones. 

"That's  the  Major,"  spoke  the  man  of  many  trials. 
"He'll  clear  Malcolm,  see  if  he  doesn't.  He  knows 
how  to  make  the  witnesses  on  the  other  side  swear 
that  black  is  white — then  he  has  them  swear  the 
color  back  again.  He  does  it  so  cleverly  that  they 


OEtoelpn  $an  CotmlattD*         143 

don't  know  what  he's  about,  but  the  jury  does.  The 
Major'll  own  the  jury  before  the  trial's  an  hour  old." 

An  officer  rapped  loudly  for  order.  Conversation 
halted  just  so  long  as  that  august  personage  scowled 
his  disapproval.  A  moment  later  the  suppressed 
whispers  grew  into  a  murmur.  A  court  messenger 
handed  a  bundle  of  legal  papers  to  the  clerk  of  the 
court;  an  officer  motioned  some  newcomers  into  a 
rear  seat;  and  an  ill-favored,  poorly-dressed  man  of 
middle  age  made  an  attempt  to  crowd  into  a  front 
row. 

"Get  back  there,"  spoke  the  officer,  gruffly,  "those 
seats  are  for  the  witnesses." 

The  spectator  glared  defiance,  then  shuffled  back 
to  the  rear. 

"Order !"  cried  the  officer. 

The  confusion  of  many  voices  sank  to  a  whisper. 
Betts  entered  through  a  door  in  the  rear,  and  slowly 
made  his  way  to  the  table  where  his  employer  was 
sitting.  Placing  his  coat  with  methodical  care  on 
the  back  of  a  chair,  he  seated  himself  beside  the 
Major. 

Members  of  the  legal  fraternity  who  knew  Betts, 
looked  at  him  with  astonishment.  They  had  never 
before  seen  him  in  a  court  room.  Settling  himself 
comfortably  in  his  chair,  he  became  absorbed  in  the 
contemplation  of  the  ceiling.  The  Major  paid  him 
the  tacit  compliment  of  assuming  that  he  would  dis- 
close his  business  at  the  proper  time. 


144         dEtoelpn  l?an  CourtlanB. 


"Order  in  the  court  !" 

The  tone  was  imperative;  conversation  ceased. 
The  crowd  looked  at  the  officer,  then  at  each  other, 
and  again  resumed  their  chattering.  Betts  laid  a 
letter  on  the  table  before  the  Major,  who  glanced  at 
its  contents. 

"No  answer,"  he  said,  placing  the  letter  in  the 
inner  pocket  of  his  coat. 

Without  a  word,  or  even  a  glance  at  his  employer, 
Betts  placed  his  coat  on  his  arm  and  glided  from 
the  room. 

"Good  man,"  mused  the  Major,  then  in  his  eyes 
a  serious  light  replaced  the  customary  twinkle.  "I 
wonder  what  Le  Moyne  would  say  if  he  knew  the 
contents  of  that  letter." 

The  court  officer  rapped  with  resounding  force. 

"Court!" 

The  audience  rose.  The  Judge  was  ascending 
the  bench,  and  the  court  was  ready  to  begin  the 
business  of  the  day. 

Le  Moyne  had  entered  the  court  room  just  pre- 
vious to  the  Judge's  appearance.  He  greeted  Strong 
with  genuine  warmth. 

"Everything  in  readiness?"  asked  the  elder  man. 

"As  far  as  I  know,"  was  the  reply. 

"How  long  will  it  take  you  to  put  in  your  case  ?" 

"My  dear  Major,"  smiled  Le  Moyne,  "that  de- 
pends entirely  on  you.  The  direct  testimony  will 
not  require  more  than  a  day.  Beyond  that  ;you 


OtourtlanD, 

must  judge  by  the  extent  of  your  cross-examination. 
How  many  witnesses  have  you  ?" 

"One,"  answered  the  Major,  "and  the  defendant." 

"You  will  put  him  on  the  stand?"  Le  Moyne's 
manner  betrayed  his  surprise. 

"Of  course,"  was  the  terse  reply. 

Le  Moyne  cast  a  hasty  glance  at  the  face  of  his 
opponent.  It  told  him  nothing.  Quiet  reserve,  tran- 
quillity, an  entire  absence  of  anything  in  the  expres- 
sion that  might  disclose  the  thoughts  of  the  man  who, 
with  calm  courtesy,  met  the  gaze  of  surprised  in- 
quiry. An  absence  of  cunning,  irony,  or  malice  in 
the  lines  about  the  mouth — all  this  he  saw  in  the 
lawyer's  face.  Looking  into  the  man's  eyes  was  like 
sounding  unknown  depths.  What  you  saw  was  but 
the  reflection  of  the  man's  soul;  you  felt  his  power. 

Le  Moyne  well  knew  that,  if  Malcolm  were  to  go 
upon  the  stand,  such  a  course  would  be  adopted  only 
from  the  Major's  belief  in  his  client's  innocence,  or 
his  conviction  that  he  could  give  new  and  important 
evidence  unknown  to  the  Government. 

For  some  moments  the  District-Attorney  went 
into  the  minor  details  of  the  case  with  the  Judge. 
At  a  signal  the  Major  joined  them,  and  the  spec- 
tators, with  breathless  interest,  waited  the  opening 
of  the  trial. 

The  word  was  given.  An  officer  opene'd  a  side 
door  and  Malcolm  entered. 

There  was  a  hush.    All  eyes  were  on  the  accused 


146         €toelptt  l£art  CouttlanU, 


man,  every  head  bent  forward  to  stamp  on  mind  and 
memory  every  detail  of  his  appearance,  to  speculate 
on  his  guilt  or  innocence,  to  note  if  he  faltered,  to 
attribute  hesitancy  to  fear,  calmness  or  self-posses- 
sion to  defiance. 

As  he  walked  with  firm  step  and  took  a  seat,  what 
was  the  judgment  of  those  who  saw  him  for  the  first 
time?-  —  the  erect  carriage,  the  finely  formed  head, 
the  clear-cut  features,  the  air  of  proud,  self-reliant 
manhood  ?  Was  he  conscious  of  the  concentrated 
gaze  of  the  hundreds  of  eyes  turned  toward  him,  of 
the  multitude  of  conjectures  as  to  his  probable  guilt  ? 
Did  those  who  sought  to  read  on  the  impassive, 
though  strikingly  handsome  face  thoughts  and  emo- 
tions that  they  believed  should  be  his,  rebel  at  their 
signal  failure?  Were  they  annoyed  at  the  self-com- 
mand of  this  man,  accused  of  the  greatest  of  crimes, 
yet  who,  except  for  one  hasty,  sweeping  glance,  ap- 
peared unconscious  of  their  presence?  Or,  as  his 
eyes  encountered  the  Major's  glance,  did  they  note 
the  flash  of  recognition  and  pleasure,  and  attribute 
the  look  to  bravado? 

Those  who  saw  the  accused  man  were  plainly  dis- 
appointed. They  had  expected  something  different 
—  some  manifestation  of  guilt  or  hesitancy.  The 
defendant's  appearance  dispelled  their  mental  pic- 
ture. Of  course  the  law  declares  a  man  to  be  inno- 
cent until  he  is  proved  guilty.  Did  the  spectators 
believe  it?  Not  they!  To  ask  the  average  individ- 


$an  CourtianD*         147 

ual  to  hold  his  judgment  in  abeyance  till  a  jury  de- 
clares a  man  accused  of  a  crime  innocent  or  guilty, 
is  asking  too  much.  Who  dare  say  that  legal  ques- 
tions are  decided  upon  evidence?  The  ordinary 
mind  arrives  at  its  own  conclusions  irrespective  of 
law  or  procedure.  Evidence  may  influence,  even 
change  opinions;  but  the  human  intellect  rarely 
waits  for  evidence  upon  which  to  found  its  belief. 
Had  Malcolm's  appearance  not  upset  their  precon- 
ceived mental  portrait,  had  his  behavior  met  their 
estimate  of  a  man  justly  accused  of  a  capital  crime, 
they  would  have  promptly  pronounced  him  guilty. 
They  were  nonplussed,  and  doggedly  awaited  de- 
velopments. 

There  was  one  who,  unnoticed,  and  taking  ad- 
vantage of  the  stir  occasioned  by  Malcolm's  en- 
trance, had  taken  a  seat  within  the  enclosure  re- 
served for  the  members  of  the  bar.  Howard  Van 
Courtland  sat  as  one  in  a  trance,  his  eyes  fixed  on 
the  accused  man,  his  countenance  livid,  controlling 
the  muscles  of  his  face  only  by  a  superhuman  effort. 
Not  for  an  instant  did  he  remove  his  gaze — his  ex- 
treme pallor  being  the  only  evidence  of  how  deeply 
he  was  moved. 

Major  Strong  commanded  a  view  of  the  door 
through  which  Van  Courtland  had  entered,  and, 
though  he  was  taking  part  in  a  discussion  with  the 
Judge,  his  eyes  were  on  the  banker.  He  saw  the 
latter's  glance  travel  to  the  face  of  the  accused;  saw, 


148         OEueln  ^an  CourtlanD, 


the  start  of  recognition,  followed  by  the  look  of  fear. 
For  some  moments,  with  the  trained  eye  of  one  who 
has  learned  to  depend  upon  the  human  countenance 
for  the  evidence  he  seeks,  he  watched  the  convulsed 
features.  With  fatal  certainty  he  read  the  thoughts 
and  emotions  that  controlled  Van  Courtland,  who, 
oblivious  of  his  surroundings,  seemed  to  have  lost 
all  power  of  discretion  or  of  action. 

Malcolm's  glance  wandered  slowly  over  the  en- 
closure, until  it  encountered  the  ashen  gray  features, 
the  look  of  mingled  fear  and  entreaty  fixed  on  his 
own  face.  Did  the  expression  in  his  eyes,  as  they 
lingered  on  the  white  face  for  an  instant,  speak  con- 
demnation or  pity?  Even  Strong,  who  alone  ob- 
served the  look,  could  not  answer.  Van  Courtland 
met  the  glance,  powerless  to  avoid  it,  his  faculties 
benumbed,  his  will  as  naught  —  his  gaze  resting  on 
the  face  of  the  accused. 

He  sat  as  one  transfixed.  For  the  moment  he  was 
unconscious  of  what  was  taking  place  about  him; 
neither  did  the  close  proximity  of  others  have  the 
power  to  recall  his  bewildered  faculties  to  life.  His 
brain  was  capable  of  only  one  impression  —  he  saw 
only  the  face  of  the  accused  ;  all  else  became  a  blur. 
Would  the  vision  always  be  before  him  ?  He  seemed 
to  see  the  lips  move  in  the  unspoken  charge  —  "Why 
do  you  remain  silent?" 

A  suppressed  movement  in  the  court  room  pro- 
claimed the  conference  with  the  court  at  an  end.  Le 


CourtlmtD*         149 

Moyne  was  speaking  in  a  low  voice  to  Van  Court- 
land,  who  was  making  an  heroic  effort  to  gather  the 
import  of  the  brief  remark.  He  made  no  reply  and 
the  young  attorney  turned  away. 

Throughout  the  day  the  tedious  task  of  selecting 
the  jury  progressed,  and  it  was  late  in  the  afternoon 
when  the  twelfth  man,  who  completed  the  panel,  took 
his  place  in  the  box.  Of  the  men  called  to  serve,  not 
one  had  been  challenged  by  Strong.  He  appeared, 
in  fact,  almost  indifferent,  but  as  each  member  an- 
swered to  his  name,  Strong  directed  a  searching 
glance  at  the  face  of  the  newcomer  and  passed  him 
without  question  or  comment.  The  panel  completed, 
a  recess  was  ordered  by  the  court. 

"You  are  satisfied  with  the  jury?"  Le  Moyne 
asked. 

"Quite  so,"  the  Major  replied.  "Intelligence  is 
the  first  requisite.  The  jury  appears  to  be  above 
the  average." 

"Should  they  declare  the  defendant  guilty,"  Le 
Moyne  laughed,  "I  am  inclined  to  believe  that  you 
would  change  your  opinion." 

"They  won't,"  retorted  the  Major. 

The  young  man  did  not  like  the  note  of  confidence 
in  the  speaker's  voice.  He  knew  the  Major  was  not 
given  to  stating  an  opinion  in  positive  terms,  and, 
though  his  words  and  manner  were  somewhat  ban- 
tering, in  his  tone  there  was  quiet  confidence.  The 
possible  reason  for  the  Major's  seeming  indifference 


150         CEtoelpn  $an  CotmlanD, 

worried  the  young  attorney.  Was  his  opponent  so 
certain  of  an  acquittal  that  he  could  afford  to  relax 
his  customary  vigilance?  He  mentally  argued  that 
the  Major's  confidence  was  founded  upon  evidence 
in  his  possession.  What  was  it  ?  Had  the  accused 
some  new  defense  in  reserve  ?  Had  he  told  all  he 
knew  of  the  tragic  events,  or,  under  advice  of  his 
counsel,  was  he  to  advance  a  different  version  than 
he  had  before  given  of  his  interview  with  Harlan? 

"Major,"  he  asked,  abruptly,  "assuming  that  Mal- 
colm be  declared  not  guilty,  are  you  aware  of  evi- 
dence that  warrants  you  in  believing  he  knows  the 
guilty  person?" 

"That/'  replied  the  Major,  "is  a  question  I  dare 
not  consider ;  but  I  do  not  hesitate  to  declare  my  be- 
lief in  Malcolm's  innocence.  And  I  expect  to  bring 
the  jury  to  my  way  of  thinking." 

"You  are  a  doughty  champion,"  was  the  laughing 
response. 

"A  case  is  half  won,"  observed  the  Major,  "if  we 
bring  ourselves  to  have  faith  in  our  side  of  it.  Be- 
fore I  had  ever  seen  the  accused  I  did  not  believe 
him  guilty;  after  I  had  talked  with  him  I  knew  it." 

"Then  his  statements  to  you  were  more  candid 
than  those  he  grudgingly  gave  at  the  preliminary 
hearing." 

"My  dear  fellow,  my  opinion  was  not  founded  on 
what  he  told  me,  but  what  he  refused  to  divulge. 


i^an  CourtlanD,         151 

Here  is  the  court.  You  will  finish  your  opening  to 
the  jury  to-day?" 

"Yes,"  was  the  reply. 

The  jury  took  their  seats,  and  without  delay  Le 
Moyne  began  the  statement  to  them  of  what  the 
Government  intended  to  prove.  In  a  low  voice,  but 
with  an  earnestness  that  enlisted  and  held  the  atten- 
tion of  his  hearers,  he  told  of  the  visit  of  the  ac- 
cused to  Harlan's  home,  of  the  midnight  interview, 
the  discovery  of  the  crime  the  following  morning, 
and  the  prisoner's  subsequent  arrest.  The  speaker 
dwelt  on  the  circumstance  of  the  interview  with  the 
deceased,  and  that  Malcolm  was  the  last  person 
known  to  have  seen  the  unfortunate  man  before  his 
death. 

His  dispassionate  voice,  and  the  entire  fairness 
with  which  he  stated  the  case  of  the  Government, 
made  a  deep  impression  upon  his  hearers.  Yet  with 
all  its  seeming  simplicity,  his  presentation  was  a 
masterpiece  of  adroitness.  Through  it  all  ran  a 
subtle  interrogation,  by  implication  suggesting  the 
question  which  the  rules  of  law  and  procedure  for- 
bade him  to  openly  voice: — "What  business  had 
Malcolm  with  the  deceased  that  made  necessary  his 
midnight  visit?  If  he  were  there  for  a  legitimate 
purpose,  why  should  he  refuse  to  explain  away  the 
mystery  ?" 

The  Major  listened  with  a  feeling  of  admiration 


152         (ZEtoelpn  $an  CourtlanD. 

for  the  speaker's  able  outline  of  the  case.  He  rec- 
ognized the  purpose  of  the  Government,  and  he  paid 
a  mental  tribute  to  his  brilliant  opponent  for  the 
masterly  manner  in  which  he  brought  the  question 
before  the  minds  of  the  jury. 

While  the  spectators  listened  to  Le  Moyne's  ad- 
dress, their  eyes  were  on  the  face  of  the  accused, 
watching  for  some  evidence  of  emotion,  a  look,  a  sign 
that  he  was  moved,  or  some  gesture  that  they  might 
construe  to  be  an  indication  of  guilt  Disappoint- 
ment awaited  them.  Malcolm,  silent,  unmoved,  was 
unconscious  of  all  else  but  the  statement  to  which  he 
listened.  One  person  alone  enlisted  his  attention — 
the  man  who  was  laying  the  foundation  of  the  case 
against  him ;  and  when  the  address  was  finished,  his 
face  reflected  his  admiration.  He  had  listened  to 
an  able  outline  of  the  Government's  case,  and  he 
was  quick  to  give  Le  Moyne  credit  for  the  earnest 
effort  he  had  made. 

"How  that  fellow  has  improved  since  we  were  at 
college,"  was  Malcolm's  mental  comment.  "I'd  like 
to  congratulate  him.  He  was  always  a  decent  sort, 
though  not  particularly  brilliant.  The  study  of  law 
has  done  him  a  world  of  good.  I  really  believe  he 
thinks  I'm  guilty." 

A  marked  change  had  come  over  Van  Courtland. 
In  his  eyes  shone  a  new  light  of  confidence.  Lines 
and  wrinkles  had  disappeared,  and  a  faint  flush  on 
either  cheek  had  dissipated  the  extreme  pallor.  A 


CourtlanO,         153 

feeling  of  exultation  took  possession  of  him.  He 
was  impatient  for  the  court  to  adjourn  that  he  might 
speak  to  Le  Moyne,  to  thank  him,  to  express  his 
pleasure  at  his  success,  which  to  him  now  appeared  a 
certainty. 

The  court  gave  the  word,  and  the  trial  was  ad- 
journed to  the  following  day. 

Van  Courtland  hastily  advanced  to  Le  Moyne 
with  outstretched  hand. 

"Splendid,"  he  exclaimed.  "You  must  come  and 
dine  with  us.  I  will  send  word  to  Evelyn." 

Together  they  left  the  court  room. 


154         Ctoelpn  $an  CourtianD, 


CHAPTER  XII. 

WITH  a  feeling  of  chagrin,  Evelyn  learned  that  her 
father  had  invited  Le  Moyne  to  dinner.  She  was 
heartsick  at  the  thought  that,  for  the  present,  she 
must  continue  the  deception,  that  she  must  still  fur- 
ther debase  herself,  and  play  the  revolting  part  of 
the  traitor.  It  was  a  matter  only  of  days,  or  of 
hours,  till  he  must  know  the  truth.  Perhaps  even 
now  he  suspected  her.  How  could  she  know  what 
had  transpired  at  the  trial?  He  might  meet  her 
with  caution,  watching  her  every  word  and  look  to 
discover  if  he  were  justified  in  the  belief  that  she 
had  betrayed  his  confidence — sold  him  out,  his  pro- 
fessional integrity,  his  honor.  And  even  if  he  did 
not  yet  suspect  her,  it  was  only  delaying  the  hour 
till  he  should  become  aware  of  her  shameless  course. 
"Now  that  her  task  was  completed,  she  saw  no  need 
for  continuing  her  deception.  To  further  humiliate 
or  wound  the  man  who  had  surrendered  the  honor 
of  his  office  to  a  useless,  hopeless  passion,  was  revolt- 
ing to  her  sense  of  pity  and  decency.  His  love  would 
cost  him  more  than  he  knew,  more  than  he  dreamed : 
— his  faith  in  human  nature.  He  was  not  blame- 


l£an  CoimlattD*         155 

less,  but  his  fault  would  appear  trivial  in  the  light 
of  her  greater  wrong.  Did  the  end  she  wished  to 
accomplish  justify  the  means  employed  ?  If  so,  she 
did  not  consider  it  an  excuse,  or  plead  it  in  exonera- 
tion of  her  course.  She  knew,  and  anticipated,  the 
result  of  her  determination  to  save  Malcolm's  life. 
Should  she  succeed,  it  would  be  at  the  sacrifice  of 
her  self-respect.  Could  she  have  known  that  she, 
alone,  was  to  pay  the  cost,  her  wrong  would  have 
appeared  less,  her  suffering  have  lost  its  acute  sting. 
Another  was  to  suffer — one  whose  love  would  die  as 
would  his  faith  in  womanhood.  She  could  hear  his 
laugh  of  disdain  at  the  suggestion  of  woman's  loyal- 
ty. Then  with  the  thought  would  come  a  revulsion 
of  feeling.  Why  had  he  trusted  her  ?  Why  had  he 
divulged  the  professional  secrets  of  his  office  ?  Were 
all  men  of  his  mould?  Could  they  be  led,  cajoled, 
played  with,  until,  surrendering  their  right  to  com- 
mand respect,  they  were  content  to  become  puppets, 
their  only  reward  a  look,  a  word,  or  a  loveless 
caress?  Why  had  this  man  allowed  himself  to  be 
so  easily  conquered  ?  Though  he  might  not  have 
awakened  an  answering  passion,  he  could,  at  least, 

have  commanded  her  respect     Now 

Her  laugh  was  an  answer  to  her  thought.  When 
a  man  laughs  with  the  bitterness  worldly  experience 
teaches,  if  he  be  of  an  irascible  nature,  he  sets  about 
finding  someone  with  whom  to  quarrel.  Usually  he 
succeeds.  If  his  turn  of  mind  is  moody,  he  sulks, 


156         OEfcelpn  i^an  CourtlanU. 

or,  if  bibulously  inclined,  he  gets  becomingly  drunk. 
A  woman  broods,  and  brooding  is  not  good  for  the 
soul.  If  she  can,  and  will,  she  should  weep,  for 
tears  are  soothing — except  to  the  beholder.  If  she 
does  not  shed  tears,  she  will  act,  and  invariably  she 
does  that  which  for  her  own  peace  of  mind  she 
should  not  do.  Evelyn's  laugh  was  not  good  to  hear. 
With  a  composed  air,  a  firm  step,  and  a  touch  of  un- 
conscious hauteur,  she  went  to  her  apartment  to  dress 
for  dinner. 

An  hour  later  she  was  alone  in  the  drawing-room. 
Almost  immediately  the  bell  rang  and  Mr.  Wavily 
was  announced.  He  entered,  smiling,  faultlessly 
dressed  in  black,  the  one  youthful  touch  to  his  dress 
a  light-colored  cravat.  Evelyn  advanced  to  meet  him 
with  genuine  pleasure.  She  divined  that  her  fath- 
er's old  friend  had  been  bidden  to  dinner  with  an 
informality  countenanced,  even  encouraged,  by  men 
of  their  age  and  class.  Here,  then,  was  a  deliver- 
ance from  an  evening  alone  with  Le  Moyne.  Never 
had  the  debonair  little  man  received  a  more  genuine 
welcome  than  she  accorded  him.  He  was  pleased, 
and  quick  to  respond  to  her  warm  greeting.  He  led 
her  to  a  seat  with  tender  grace. 

"You  see,  my  dear,  your  father  didn't  invite  me 
to  dinner.  He  commanded  me  to  report  without  de- 
lay. So  I  present  myself.  Of  course,"  he  chuckled 
merrily,  "if  you  will  take  pity  on  a  solitary  old  man, 
and " 


OEtoelpn  $an  CouttlanO*         157 

"Formally  invite  you!"  she  laughingly  interrupt- 
ed. "No,  I,  also,  command.  Really,  I  am  very 
glad  you  came.  By  the  way,  Mr.  Le  Moyne  is  to 
dine  with  us.  Another  of  papa's  commands.  You 
will  have  an  opportunity  to  discuss  the  trial." 

"My  dear,"  Wavily's  voice  became  serious,  "I  be- 
lieve this  trial  has  engrossed  your  father's  attention 
to  a  greater  degree  than  is  good  for  him.  You  know 
concentrated  thought  on  these  disagreeable  subjects 
makes  us  morbid.  Now,  I  would  suggest  that  we 
make  an  effort  to  divert  his  mind  from  this  subject. 
What  do  you  say,  my  dear,  shall  we  conspire,  and 
refuse  to  discuss  it?" 

"Willingly,"  she  answered  with  warmth.  "I  quite 
agree  with  you.  It  is  a  grewsome  topic.  Could  you 
prevail  on  papa  to  leave  business  for  a  while  and  go 
to  some  quiet  place  for  a  rest?" 

"I  will  try,"  he  answered.  "But  he  must  be  made 
to  believe  it  is  for  your  sake,  not  his  own.  Trust  me, 
my  dear,  I  shall  arrange  it." 

The  entrance  of  Van  Courtland  and  Le  Moyne  in- 
terrupted their  conversation. 

"On  time  as  usual,"  was  Van  Courtland's  greet- 
ing to  his  old  friend.  "My  dear,"  he  turned  to 
Evelyn,  "Mr.  Le  Moyne  will  tell  you  all  about  the 
trial.  Come  with  me  to  the  library,"  he  said  to 
Wavily,  "I  wish  to  talk  business  before  dinner  is 
announced." 

With  his  guest  he  led  the  way  to  the  library. 


158        (Ettelpn  Pan  Courtlatttu 


Since  morning  Van  Courtland's  manner  had  un- 
dergone a  complete  change.  He  had  thrown  off  the 
air  of  dejection  that,  for  the  past  few  weeks,  had 
become  so  marked  as  to  cause  general  comment  His 
eyes  shone  with  unusual  brilliancy,  but  in  them  was 
the  smouldering  light  of  a  fevered  brain.  However 
much  his  assumed  air  of  gayety,  his  labored  effort 
to  appear  at  ease,  impressed  his  guest,  his  manner 
did  not  deceive  Evelyn.  She  was  quick  to  penetrate 
the  mask,  behind  which  he  sought  to  hide  the  in- 
tense strain  under  which  he  was  laboring.  There 
was  an  unnatural  ring  in  his  voice,  and,  as  the 
library  door  closed  after  him,  his  forced  laugh  grated 
on  her  nerves.  Again  she  was  face  to  face  with  the 
man  she  most  dreaded  to  meet  Taking  care  that 
he  did  not  read  in  her  face  her  feeling  of  repug- 
nance, she  must  encounter  his  glance  and  control  the 
tones  of  her  voice  in  her  effort  to  still  continue  her 
deception.  Why  did  not  the  butler  announce  din- 
ner? When  the  library  door  had  closed,  she  turned 
to  Le  Moyne.  Would  she  read  in  his  eyes  what  she 
feared  —  that  he  suspected  her?  No,  her  hasty 
glance  met  only  unrestrained,  unguarded  love  —  not 
the  bold  look  of  licentious  passion,  but  the  smoulder- 
ing fire  of  a  strong  nature,  of  love  that,  by  its  mas- 
terful force,  deadened  his  finer  instinct  and  judg- 
ment Xever  before  had  the  thought  of  this  man's 
love  filled  her  with  such  a  sense  of  revulsion  as  at 
that  moment  swept  over  her.  His  touch,  his  caress  ! 


$an  CouttlattD.         159 

The  possibility  maddened  her — her  whole  being  re- 
volted at  the  thought.  Her  hour  of  discovery,  of  de- 
liverance, had  not  come;  the  result  of  her  mission 
was  yet  in  doubt — her  part  was  still  to  be  played 
to  a  finish.  She  would  not  falter. 

"Well,"  she  exclaimed,  with  a  light  laugh,  "I 
needn't  ask  about  the  result  of  your  day's  work. 
Your  expression  spells  'Success!'  Am  I  right?" 

"Yes,"  he  answered,  with  boyish  bluntness,  "it 
was  all  I  could  ask  for." 

There  was  a  winning  enthusiasm  in  his  frankness, 
a  youthful,  though  sturdy  quality,  a  healthy  mag- 
netism that  would  have  enlisted  the  admiration  of 
the  ordinary  woman.  The  excitement  of  the  day,  the 
flush  of  anticipated  victory,  still  clung  to  him. 

"Tell  me  all  about  it" 

With  languid  grace  she  sank  on  a  circular  divan, 
her  glance  inviting  him  to  a  place  beside  her. 
Flushing  with  pleasure,  he  took  the  proffered  seat. 

"Your  father  can  tell  you  better  than  I,"  he  said. 
"He  believed  the  jury  were  impressed  by  the  outline 
of  the  evidence  to  be  presented.  You  know  much 
depends  upon  the  start." 

"I  suppose  so,"  she  replied  absently,  "but  about 
the  other  side — the  defendant  and  his  attorney  ?  Did 
you  completely  crush  them  ?" 

"No,  no,"  he  laughingly  answered,  "but  I  shall 
pay  my  respects  to  them  in  my  final  argument" 

"Do  ladies  attend  the  trial  ?"  she  asked. 


160         Sftjelpn  #an  CourtlanD* 

"Certainly,"  he  answered  quickly.  "If  you  cared 
to  go " 

"No,"  she  interrupted,  "but  I  was  thinking  the 
proceedings  must  be  interesting.  And  Malcolm! 
How  did  he  appear  ?" 

"Quite  indifferent,"  he  replied,  "I  can't  think  of 
him  as  a  criminal,  yet  the  evidence  against  him  is 
convincing." 

The  entrance  of  Van  Courtland  was  followed  by 
the  announcement  of  dinner. 

Wavily,  with  the  chivalric  grace  of  a  past  age, 
offered  his  arm  to  Evelyn;  Van  Courtland  and  Le 
Moyne  followed  them  to  the  dining-room. 

It  was  the  liveliest  dinner  party  that  had  sat  at  the 
host's  board  for  many  months.  Wavily  took  upon 
himself  the  task  of  directing  the  conversation.  With 
ready,  but  harmless  wit,  he  launched  his  shafts  of 
satire  at  Le  Moyne,  at  his  profession,  playfully  abus- 
ing him,  but  never  approaching  the  border  of  offence. 
Many  times  Van  Courtland  returned  to  the  events 
of  the  day,  the  proceedings  of  the  trial,  and  as  often 
as  he  did  so,  Wavily  met  him  with  a  witticism,  a 
brilliant  bit  of  repartee,  or  a  trite  story.  In  the 
laugh  that  followed,  Van  Courtland  joined,  but  the 
staring  eyes  told  of  a  mind  inflamed  by  exckement, 
which  he  controlled,  owing  to  the  presence  of  his 
guests. 

"You  should  Have  heard  Le  Moyne's  outline  of 


OEtoelpn  $an  CourtlanD* 

the  case,"  he  said.  "It  was  convincing.  I  watched 
the  jury.  Every  word  told.  It  was  masterly." 

"Pooh,"  the  old  man  replied,  "the  other  fellow 
will  rip  it  all  to  pieces.  That's  their  business.  The 
last  one  to  have  his  say  will  win.  It's  always  so. 

«/  «/ 

Lawyers,  you  know,  have  a  set  of  speeches  always  on 
hand.  They  select  one  to  fit  their  case.  The  jury 
ought  to  decide  against  them  every  time." 

"The  jury  couldn't  decide  against  both,"  was  Eve- 
lyn's smiling  rejoinder. 

"True,  my  dear,"  Wavily  responded,  "but  they 
ought  to." 

"Then,"  she  retorted,  after  the  laughter  had  sub- 
sided, "to  return  to  your  first  hypothesis,  the  last  one 
to  address  the  jury  should  win.  Which  is  it,  Mr. 
Le  Moyne  ?" 

"The  prosecuting  attorney,"  he  answered. 

"Too  bad,  too  bad!"  exclaimed  Wavily,  "I  want 
to  see  the  young  man  acquitted." 

The  color  left  Van  Courtland's  face.  The  wine 
glass  he  held  in  his  trembling  hand  clinked  against 
his  plate. 

"Why  do  you  wish  to  see  him  acquitted?"  he 
asked  excitedly. 

His  tone  was  abrupt  and  harsh.  Evelyn's  face 
flushed.  She  could  not  interrupt  without  seeming 
rudeness.  The  conversation  had  drifted  into  dan- 
gerous channels. 


162         etieln  $an  CourtlanD* 


"Why?"  answered  Wavily,  his  eyes  dancing  with 
suppressed  merriment,  "so  I  could  laugh  at  our 
friend  Le  Moyne.  If  Major  Strong  were  here,  I 
would  include  him  in  my  vengeful  desire.  How 
could  defeat  for  both  of  you  be  brought  about?"  he 
asked  Le  Moyne. 

"Easily  enough,"  was  the  answer,  "by  a  disagree- 
ment of  the  jury." 

"A  most  desirable  outcome,"  the  old  man  re- 
joined, "anything  to  beat  the  lawyers  —  both  of 
them." 

Evelyn  was  not  deceived.  She  recognized  the 
speaker's  intent.  She  flashed  him  a  look  of  grati- 
tude, and  in  the  old  man's  eyes  she  read  a  tender 
acknowledgement. 

"A  disagreement,"  protested  Van  Courtland, 
"would  necessitate  -  " 

"My  dear  Van  Courtland,"  interrupted  Wavily, 
"apropos  of  the  subject  of  worsting  the  lawyers,  per- 
mit me  —  a  little  story  !" 

"In  Leadville,  in  the  early  seventies,  a  young 
blacksmith  was  tried  for  killing  a  man.  In  those 
days  men  indulged  in  the  reprehensible  habit  of  car- 
rying concealed  weapons.  At  the  trial  it  was  proved 
that  the  accused  acted  in  self-defense.  He  was  ac- 
quitted. Owing  to  his  poverty,  he  could  tender  his 
attorney  only  gratitude  and  a  promise  to  repay  him 
at  any  time  he  might  be  called  upon,  by  any  means 
in  his  power  short  of  killing  another  man.  .Well, 


l^an  CourtlanD*         163 

you  know  lawyers  never  cancel  a  debt — even  of 
gratitude — until  it  is  paid. 

"Some  time  after,  it  so  happened  that  this  same 
lawyer  had  a  doubtful  case  on  trial  and,  to  make 
the  result  still  more  dubious,  one  of  his  witnesses 
failed  to  appear.  At  that  time,  when  the  jury  was 
incomplete,  they  drew  the  talesman  from  among  the 
spectators  who  happened  to  be  in  the  court  room. 
The  lawyer  was  desperate.  To  try  the  case  without 
his  witness  meant  certain  defeat;  yet  the  case  must 
be  tried.  He  thought  of  the  blacksmith.  That  debt 
of  gratitude  had  not  been  canceled.  'Sit  in  the 
front  row,'  he  said  to  the  smithy,  'I  will  arrange 
to  have  you  drawn  on  the  jury,  and  remember  this — 
whatever  way  the  other  eleven  vote,  you  vote  against 
them  and  stick  to  it.' 

"The  trial  proceeded.  The  jury  retired.  After 
hours  of  deliberation  they  brought  in  a  verdict  of 
disagreement.  The  lawyer  was  delighted — it  was 
all  he  had  hoped  for.  The  debt  of  gratitude  had 
been  paid.  But,"  the  speaker  laughed  gleefully — 
"when  he  was  leaving  the  court  room  he  met  one  of 
the  eleven  other  jurors.  'Colonel,'  said  the  jury- 
man, 'eleven  of  us  were  for  deciding  in  your  favor, 
because  we  didn't  believe  the  witnesses  on  the  other 
side,  but  there  was  one  blockheaded,  stubborn  mule 
of  a  blacksmith  on  the  jury,  who  said  he'd  be  con- 
sumed to  the  hottest  corner  of  'The  Hot  Place'  be- 
fore he'd  agree  with  us.  He  didn't  care  which  way 


164         OEtoeln  $an  CourtianD, 


we  voted,  he  said  he  was  'agin'  us.  So  we  were 
forced  to  bring  in  a  disagreement.'  Later  the  black- 
smith met  his  former  attorney.  'Yer  told  me  ter 
vote  agin'  'em,'  he  said,  'and  if  they  hadn't  quit 
ther'  game,  I'd  be  there  yet  a-holdin'  'em  up.'  Good 
for  the  smithy,"  concluded  Wavily.  "Anything  to 
beat  the  lawyers." 

"Surely/'  Evelyn  retorted,  "you  will  make  an  ex- 
ception to  your  rule.  There  are  some  lawyers  who 
deserve  to  win." 

"Em!  Perhaps  so,  but  opinions,  like  general 
principles,  should  not  be  lightly  surrendered.  You 
see,  my  dear,  a  lawyer  first  launches  his  client  into 
a  sea  of  litigation,  then,  like  a  pirate,  demands 
half  his  victim's  fortune  to  get  him  safely  ashore. 
They  know  all  the  tricks,  and  they  practice  them, 
too." 

"You  will  begin  to-morrow,  Le  Moyne,  putting 
in  the  Government's  case?"  Van  Courtland  asked. 

"Yes." 

"And,"  interjected  Wavily,  "when  Major  Strong 
gets  after  your  witnesses  he  will  give  them  a  dis- 
agreeable half  hour.  He'll  make  it  his  business  to 
discover  what  particular  branch  of  tne  genealogical 
family  tree  they  adorn." 

Van  Courtland  shifted  uneasily  in  his  seat  His 
guest's  evident  sympathy  for  Malcolm  cut  him  like 
a  lash,  but  his  innate  courtesy  forbade  any  outward 
show  of  resentment.  Evelyn,  to  prevent  the  subject 


^att  CourtlattD,         165 

assuming  a  personal  trend,  rose  and  led  the  way  to 
the  drawing  room. 

"Play  something,  my  dear/7  the  old  man  asked. 
"Not  what  you  call  music  of  the  'Modern  School'— 
play  the  old  pieces,  that  I  heard  Jennie  Lind  and 
Parepa  Rossa  sing.  Do  you  know,"  he  rattled  on, 
"I  have  heard  opera  sung  in  Castle  Garden?  Yes, 
it  is  quite  true!  And  between  the  acts  we  used  to 
run  over  to  Fraunce's  Tavern  or  the  Stevens'  House 
for  a  mug  of  beer  and  a  bite  of  cheese.  Dear  me ! 
How  long  ago  that  was !  Then  they  moved  the  opera 
uptown,  and  Patti's  day  came.  Oh,  but  you  can't 
imagine  what  she  was  then!  She  is  still  young,  be- 
cause she  doesn't  worry.  That's  the  secret.  You 
have  heard  me  say  that  before.  Yes,  and  I'll  stick 
to  it.  Never  worry,  my  dear;  have  pleasant 
thoughts,  and  your  beauty,  like  Patti's  voice,  will 
linger.  You  know  you  are  beautiful,  my  dear.  I 
believe,"  he  concluded  with  a  merry  laugh,  "Le 
Moyne  knows  it,  too." 

Evelyn  flushed,  but  could  not  resist  laughing. 
Sitting  at  the  piano  she  played  bits  of  the  old  Italian 
operas,  the  old  man  keeping  time  with  his  fingers, 
his  eyes  dancing  with  pleasure,  while  he  gave  him- 
self up  to  the  enjoyment  of  the  moment. 

Le  Moyne  and  his  host  were  conversing  in  a  far 
corner  of  the  room.  Much  as  the  District  Attorney 
was  interested  in  the  outcome  of  the  trial,  though  he 
appreciated  the  attention  paid  to  him  by  his  host,  he 


166         <£tiilpn  Van  CourtlanD. 

was  annoyed  by  the  persistent  discussion.  He  had 
had  little  opportunity  to  speak  to  Evelyn  alone,  yet 
during  the  few  moments  spent  with  her  it  seemed  to 
him  that  her  manner  had  undergone  a  change.  There 
was  something  lacking.  The  color,  the  life  in  her 
voice  was  deadened;  the  smile  seemed  forced,  the 
eyes  as  though  a  mist  shut  in  the  light,  No,  he 
was  not  mistaken !  He  could  not  help  observing  the 
change.  When  he  had  entered,  after  her  first  search- 
ing look  of  inquiry,  she  had  refused  to  meet  his 
glance.  She  had  been  unresponsive,  her  customary 
candor  was  lacking.  Her  strained  manner,  which 
had  at  first  escaped  his  notice,  now  stood  out  boldly  in 
contrast  with  her  behavior  during  the  dinner.  While 
listening  to  Wavily  she  had  seemed  another  being; 
her  reserve  had  disappeared,  her  features  had  glowed 
with  animation.  Doubt,  for  an  instant,  took  pos- 
session of  him — fear  that  he  was  mistaken  in  her 
feeling  toward  him,  and  that  his  hope  was  founded 
on  his  own  desire.  Then  the  memory  of  the  past 
months  sent  a  thrill  through  his  whole  being.  At 
that  moment  he  was  again  living  past  hours  of  hap- 
piness— the  mad  rapture  of  one  who,  compared  with 
the  greatness  of  his  passion,  holds  all  else  in  life  as 
trivial.  No,  he  could  not  be  mistaken.  The  mem- 
ory of  the  touch  of  her  fingers  sent  the  blood  dancing 
through  his  veins.  Her  interest,  her  sympathy,  her 
shy,  trembling  glance — yes,  these  were  the  prompt- 
ings of  unspoken  love.  His  courage  rose.  Would 


$att  Couctlano*         167 

he  speak  to  her  to-night  ?  Would  he  tell  her  that  on 
her  answer  depended  his  future,  that  his  struggle  for 
fame  was  for  her — that  his  ambitions,  his  hopes, 
lived  upon  her  answer?  Yes,  he  would  speak — to- 
night. Yet  were  it  not  better  to  wait  till,  flushed 
with  victory,  he  could  come  to  her  and  say:  "It  was 
for  you,  love,  I  fought — and  won." 

Yes,  he  must  succeed,  he  would  succeed.  He  had 
prepared  his  case  well,  his  first  great  case.  Nothing 
had  been  neglected.  He  had  given  it  personal  atten- 
tion. No  detail  had  been  too  trifling  for  him  to  con- 
sider, no  labor  too  arduous  if,  in  the  minutest  de- 
gree, it  advanced  his  prospect  of  success.  There 
would  be  no  failure,  and  when  he  had  won 

With  a  buoyant  step  and  a  light  heart,  he  crossed 
the  room  and  stood  beside  the  piano.  Wavily  was 
speaking  to  their  host,  and  Le  Moyne  seized  the  op- 
portunity to  talk  with  Evelyn.  She  had  been  listen- 
ing, enchanted,  to  the  simple,  childish  babble  of  the 
old  man.  Her  heart  had  gone  out  to  him.  His  de- 
light was  contagious;  to  him  every  moment  of  life 
was  a  joy,  and  he  lived  it  to  its  fullest  measure. 
She  was  still  playing,  and  as  Le  Moyne  leaned  to- 
wards her  and  spoke,  his  voice  was  as  soft,  his  tone 
as  tender  as  the  strain  from  Bellini's  Norma  to 
which  he  listened. 

"You  are  yourself  again,"  he  said.  "I  can  tell  it 
in  your  playing." 

"Why  again  ?"  she  asked  lightly. 


168         OEtoelpn  |?an  CourtlanD* 

"Before  dinner  I  thought  you  were  indisposed,  or 
that,  perhaps " 

She  laughed  lightly.  Then  she  had  betrayed  her 
feelings !  At  best  she  believed  herself  a  poor  actress. 
She  looked  at  him,  her  glance  coquettish,  protesting. 

"You  appeared  cold,  formal,"  he  continued. 

"And  now  ?" 

He  did  not  answer.  Her  smile  dispelled  all  re- 
maining doubt  She  was  as  he  remembered  her  the 
night  she  had  fastened  the  flower  in  his  coat — play- 
fully, bewitchingly  tender.  Suddenly  she  stopped 
playing.  The  unfinished  strain  jarred  upon  the  ear. 

"How  long  before  the  trial  will  be  finished  ?"  she 
asked  abruptly. 

"It  will  take  two  or,  at  the  most,  three  days.  Are 
you  becoming  anxious?"  he  asked. 

"Oh,  I  wish  it  were  all  over !" 

He  looked  at  her  surprised.  The  marked 
change  in  her  voice  and  manner  came  with  the  same 
abruptness  as  had  the  sudden  termination  of  the 
music,  and  affected  him  as  unpleasantly.  What  was 
the  meaning  of  her  changing  moods?  She  did  not 
give  him  time  to  dwell  upon  the  question. 

"Patience  is  not  woman's  predominant  trait,"  she 
said  with  a  light  laugh.  "Come  now,  tell  me  what 
you  like  best  and  I  will  play  it  for  you — for  you, 
alone." 

Again  the  witchery  of  her  glance  drove  all  other 
thought  from  his  mind. 


CourtlanD,         169 

"Your  choice  is  mine,"  he  answered  gallantly. 

He  listened,  enraptured.  The  music  was  in  har- 
mony with  his  thoughts.  They  were  alone,  for  the 
others  had  gone  into  the  library.  The  quaint,  be- 
witching strain  rose  and  fell,  telling  its  story  of  love 
and  passion,  of  doubt  and  joy.  It  pictured  a  fairy- 
land in  the  old  world,  some  enchanted  place  in  the 
heart  of  great  mountains,  the  summer  sun  glistening 
on  snow  peaks  that  touched  the  blue  heavens,  while 
below,  through  field  and  vale  and!  wood,  he  and 
Evelyn  wandered  together,  alone  with  the  joy  of 
their  great  love.  So  many  years  they  had  lived 
there — so  many,  many  years!  Yet  youth  had  re- 
mained with  them — the  blood  was  warm,  and  kept 
alive  the  fires  of  love.  Her  hand  lay  in  his.  How 
the  touch  thrilled  him,  again  awakening  love's  first 
flush  of  passion,  but  with  the  calm  security  that  the 
years  had  brought,  for  she  was  his,  his  alone.  The 
great  world  was  beyond  the  mountain  peaks,  but 
that  world  was  one  of  doubt,  of  strife,  of  eternal 
struggle,  they  lived  undisturbed  in  the  kingdom  of 
their  love. 

The  music  ceased,  the  picture  faded;  Le  Moyne, 
with  a  sigh  of  regret,  became  conscious  of  the  sound 
of  Evelyn's  voice. 

"You  are  in  the  land  of  dreams,"  she  was  saying. 

"Yes,"  he  answered,  "I  wish  the  music  could  have 
gone  on  forever." 

"Then  it  would  lose  its  power  to  charm,  and  we'd 


170         Ctoelpn  $an  Courtlano. 

long  for  a  discord  to  break  the  monotony.  Tell  me 
now,  of  what  were  you  thinking  ?" 

How  he  longed  to  tell  her !  To  pour  into  her  ear 
the  story  of  his  love,  to  speak  of  his  hopes — his 
dreams  of  power,  in  which  she  was  the  central  fig- 
ure, at  whose  feet  he  would  kneel,  listening  for  her 
word  of  praise  that  would  spur  him  on  to  still 
greater  heights.  Yet  he  dared  not  speak.  Did  she 
read  in  his  eyes  his  struggle?  Her  expression  as, 
rising,  she  turned  to  look  for  her  other  guest,  was 
one  of  calm  concern.  Wavily,  who  had  entered,  ap- 
proached. 

"I  was  listening  in  the  library  to  the  music,"  he 
said,  with  his  customary  cheery  smile.  "Evelyn,  my 
dear,  you  look  fatigued.  I  have  been  telling  your 
father  that  he  should  take  you  away  with  him  on  a 
nice  little  trip.  Health  is  everything,  my  dear." 

Le  Moyne  looked  quickly  at  Evelyn.  Though  she 
felt  his  glance,  she  did  not  meet  it 

"Yes,  my  dear,"  said  Van  Courtland,  "after  the 
trial  is  finished,  I  think  a  few  months  abroad  would 
do  us  both  good.  We  might  prevail  on  Mr.  Le 
Moyne  to  join  us.  Can  you  arrange  it?"  he  asked 
of  him.  "You  can  afford  to  rest  on  your  laurels  for 
awhile.  Your  coming  victory  will  warrant  it." 

Le  Moyne  waited  to  hear  Evelyn  second  her  fath- 
er's invitation,  but  she  remained  silent 

"I'll  consider  it,"  he  answered  evasively. 

"Perhaps  I'll  drop  in  at  the  trial  to-morrow,"  said 


CourtlanU*         m 

Wavily,  "about  the  time  the  Major  gets  after  your 
witnesses.  Ha!  He'll  make  them  forget  their  own 
names.  You  needn't  look  for  any  sympathy  from 
me,  young  man/'  he  concluded  with  mock  severity. 

"Should  I  lose,"  answered  Le  Moyne  quietly,  "it 
will  be  to  the  best  criminal  lawyer  in  the  State." 

"Well  said,"  warmly  rejoined  the  old  man,  "you 
deserve  to  be  on  the  winning  side.  Dear  me,"  he 
exclaimed,  looking  at  the  clock,  "nearly  midnight ! 
Who  would  have  believed  it?  Evelyn,  my  dear,  I 
have  enjoyed  myself  greatly.  Come  along,  Le  Moyne, 
I'll  have  a  last  word  with  you  on  our  way  home.  I 
wish  you  hadn't  said  such  a  nice  thing  of  the  Major 
— you  quite  took  the  wind  out  of  my  sails." 

A  few  minutes  later  they  had  gone,  and  Evelyn 
was  alone  in  her  room.  Midnight  found  her  father 
pacing  the  floor  of  the  library  in  moody  silence. 

In  the  early  evening  Major  Strong  was  admitted 
to  Malcolm's  cell.  The  young  man  was  not  expect- 
ing him,  and,  though  somewhat  surprised  by  his 
visit,  he  welcomed  him  with  evident  joy.  To  Mal- 
colm the  time  had  hung  heavily.  Wearily,  and 
with  growing  impatience,  he  had  waited  for  the  day 
of  the  trial.  His  courage  was  that  of  youth,  firm  in 
the  belief  of  his  acquittal;  but  he  fretted  under  the 
restraint,  the  silence,  the  general  air  of  gloom,  and, 
more  than  all  else,  the  loss  of  out-of-door  exercise. 

"You  weren't  expecting  me,"  said  the  Major,  after 
they  were  seated. 


172         <gtieln  $att  CourtlanD* 


"No,"  replied  Malcolm,  "but  I'm  glad  you  came  — 
this  confounded  place  gets  onto  one's  nerves." 

"It's  better  than  Ossining,"  was  the  Major's  dis- 
comforting assurance. 

Malcolm  laughed. 

"No  doubt,"  he  replied.  "He's  going  to  resume 
his  prodding,"  was  his  mental  comment.  "Anyhow, 
I'll  keep  a  rein  on  my  tongue  —  and  my  temper." 

"How  do  you  like  the  appearance  of  the  jury?" 
was  the  next  question. 

"That's  introductory,"  thought  Malcolm. 

"I  am  quite  well  satisfied,"  he  answered. 

"Your  former  employer,  Van  Courtland,  was 
there,"  the  Major  remarked  innocently. 

Had  he  commented  on  the  state  of  the  weather,  he 
would  have  done  so  in  the  same  tone;  but  his  eyes 
were  on  his  companion's  face,  noting  the  effect  of 
his  words.  Malcolm,  not  to  be  outdone,  answered 
with  equal  indifference: 

"Yes,  I  saw  him." 

"He's  as  well  aware  of  my  purpose  as  I  am," 
mused  the  Major.  "Diplomacy  is  a  waste  of  time. 
He'd  beat  me  at  my  own  game.  I  must  touch  his 
temper,  rub  him,  as  it  were,  the  wrong  way." 

"When  you  are  on  the  witness  stand,"  he  said, 
"should  I  ask  you  if  you  saw,  or  had  seen,  in  the 
court  room,  the  man  who  killed  Harlan,  what  would 
you  answer?" 

This  was  firing  at  close  range.     Before  replying, 


CourtlanD,         173 

Malcolm  waited  for  the  atmosphere  to  clear.  For 
an  instant  he  was  disconcerted  and  remained  silent. 
The  Major,  however,  depended  upon  his  eyes,  and 
not  his  ears,  to  gain  his  information. 

"My  answer  would  be,  that  I  did  not  know  who 
killed  Harlan." 

"When  the  man  who  caused  Harlan's  death  en- 
tered the  court  room,"  the  voice  was  low,  the  words 
pointedly  distinct,  "you  had,  perhaps,  only  an  opin- 
ion, a  belief;  when  he  looked  at  you  to-day,  you 
knew." 

"That"  inwardly  chuckled  the  Major,  "will  rile 
him.  Well,"  he  said  aloud,  as  Malcolm  did  not  im- 
mediately reply,  "what  have  you  to  say  to  that  ?" 

"Nothing,"  was  the  answer.     "It's  too  absurd." 

The  Major  regarded  his  client  with  admiration. 
"In  my  time,"  he  thought,  "I  have  met  all  classes  of 
men,  clever  criminals,  men  of  nerve,  men  of  cool- 
ness, judgment,  men  whom  I  knew  to  be  thoroughly 
bad,  but  who  could  almost  make  me  believe  they 
were  shining  examples  of  moral  rectitude.  I  have 
seen  men  condemned  to  death  whose  courage  never 
deserted  them,  and  those  who  could  not  be  made  to 
surrender  a  principle,  even  one  of  unholy  birth ;  but 
for  an  example  of  audacious  effrontery  this  young 
rascal  before  me  is  far  and  away  in  advance  of  any 
of  them.  And  he  read  Van  Courtland's  face  as  he 
would  an  open  book.  I  wonder  if  I  dare  mention  the 


Cfcelpn  $an  CourtlanD, 

daughter!  ~No,  it  wouldn't  be  safe.  Most  likely 
he'd  tell  me  to  go  to  the  devil." 

"Who  comprises  Van  Courtland's  family?"  he 
asked,  his  tone  as  courteous  as  if  addressing  the 
court. 

"My  dear  Major,  you  must  remember  that  I  was 
a  clerk  in  Mr.  Van  Courtland's  employ — in  impor- 
tance a  step  or  two  above  the  office  boy." 

"That  line  of  information  exhausted,"  quoth  the 
Major  to  himself.  "Guess  I  may  as  well  go  home. 
He  knows,  as  well  as  I  do,  that  Van  Courtland  has 
an  only  daughter." 

"Have  you  ever  met  any  of  the  members  of  his 
family?"  he  quietly  asked. 

"No,"  was  the  terse  reply. 

"Whether  he  has  or  has  not  met  them,"  mused  the 
Major,  "it's  my  opinion — bosh,  it's  his  life,  not  his 
love  affairs,  in  which  I  am  concerned." 

Preparing  to  go,  he  held  out  his  hand,  which  Mal- 
colm grasped.  The  younger  man  was  somewhat 
nettled.  It  was  useless  attempting  to  blind  himself 
to  the  self-evident  fact: — his  attorney  had  come  to 
him  to  discover  information  and  evidence;  and  with 
or  without  the  consent  of  his  client,  the  astute  law- 
yer had  accomplished  his  purpose. 

"Good-night,"  said  the  Major  cheerily,  "eat  and 
sleep  well,  and,  with  Heaven's  aid,  most  things  will 
come  about  as  you  order  them." 

In  another  moment  he  had  gone. 


CoimlattD*         175 


CHAPTER  XIII. 

It  lacked  but  a  few  minutes  of  ten  o'clock.  The 
air  of  the  court  room  was  surcharged  with  excite- 
ment. Late  comers,  seeking  admission,  were  refused 
at  the  door,  for  every  seat  was  occupied  by  an  eager, 
curious  crowd.  Impatient,  fretful,  yet  alert  to  all 
that  was  going  on,  filled  with  consuming  eagerness, 
the  spectators  waited  for  the  proceedings  to  begin. 
In  appearance  the  throng  was  composed  of  an  en- 
tirely different  class  than  had  attended  the  trial  the 
day  previous.  Ladies,  richly  costumed,  bejeweled 
and  perfumed,  were  in  the  majority.  What  had 
drawn  this  class  within  the  four  walls  where  grim 
justice  held  sway?  There  was  a  young  and  very 
handsome  man  to  be  tried  for  his  life.  Could  this 
be  the  reason  for  such  a  very  remarkable  display? 
The  bright  colors  and  rich  gowns  lent  an  air  of  fes- 
tivity that  brought  a  smile  to  the  faces  of  the  court 
officers.  The  wearers  of  all  this  finery  were  nervous 
and  ill  at  ease.  They  exchanged  greetings  and  gossip 
and  declared  they  did  not  quite  know  why  they  had 
come.  Harlan,  they  declared,  had  been  a  friend  or 
an  acquaintance,  and  they  made  it  quite  plain  that 


176         OEtoelpn  ^an  CourtlanD, 

it  was  not  from  idle  curiosity  they  were  present, 
although  they  admitted  that  Mr.  Malcolm  was  in  a 
predicament  that  was  really  romantic.  The  faces  of 
the  group  of  ladies  in  the  front  seats  were  hidden  un- 
der a  confused  mass  of  plumes,  aigrettes,  and  the  fili- 
greed  high-class  millinery.  From  the  incoherent 
murmur  of  voices,  something  like  the  following 
reached  their  near  neighbors : 

"Yes,  and  the  affair  has  been  going  on  for  years — 
of  course,  Mr.  Van  Courtland  knew  all  about  it. 
Malcolm!  They  say  he's  just  too  nice!  Of  course 
he's  not  guilty.  That's  Mr.  Van  Courtland  just 
sitting  down.  My !  Doesn't  he  look  like  a  ghost !  O, 
I'm  dying  to  see  Malcolm!  Dear  me,  I  wish  the 
trial  would  begin.." 

"Order!" 

The  man  of  many  trials  was  in  his  customary 
seat  His  eyes  and  his  coat  were  of  the  same  color — a 
faded  gray.  His  cravat,  of  the  prevailing  hue,  had 
done  service  since  he  had  donned  it  for  the  first  trial ; 
his  face,  too,  was  the  color  of  his  coat,  and  its  lines 
and  wrinkles  were  as  devoid  of  life  and  expression. 
Even  his  scanty  hair,  falling  on  his  thin  shoulders, 
had  faded  from  a  pale  yellow  to  a  doubtful  gray,  as 
though  nature  had  lent  her  aid  to  complete  the  for- 
lorn picture  he  presented.  His  mind  dwelt  on  death ; 
his  whole  appearance  was  in  keeping  with  his 
thoughts. 


$att  CourtlanU,         irr 

"Witnesses,"  he  was  saying  to  the  man  beside 
him,  "you  can  get  them  to  swear  to  anything;  it's 
simply  a  question  of  price.  If  they  convict  Malcolm, 
it  will  be  because  he  hasn't  money  enough  to  get 
witnesses  to  swear  to  his  side  of  the  case,  or  to  buy 
off  those  for  the  Government.  Harlan  was  a  rich 
man,  so  they  must  convict  someone.  These  trials 
are  a  great  farce.  You  can  buy  all  our  public  offi- 
cials from  the  police  up." 

"Don't  agree  with  you  there,"  said  the  listener. 

"You  have  a  right  to  your  opinion,"  the  first 
speaker  said  in  a  lifeless  voice.  "Once  I  believed  as 
you  do,  but  I  have  seen,  I  have  seen !  I  don't  believe 
any  more " 

The  voice  died.  Exhaustion  seemed  to  have  over- 
taken the  speaker. 

The  judge  took  his  seat  on  the  bench.  Shortly 
after,  Malcolm  was  escorted  to  his  place  by  the 
court  officer. 

As  on  the  preceding  day,  there  was  a  craning  of 
necks  to  catch  a  glimpse  of  the  accused  man.  The 
plumes  and  feathers  and  silks  became  animated. 
Open  admiration  lighted  the  fair  faces  of  the  wearers 
of  the  silken  gowns  and,  settling  back  in  their  places, 
they  mentally  pronounced  the  prisoner  innocent. 

Malcolm,  meantime,  was  holding  a  whispered  con- 
versation with  the  Major. 

"Sleep  well  \"  asked  the  Major. 


178         oftjelpn  l^an  Courtland* 


"Like  a  top,"  was  the  answer. 

"And  breakfast!  Appetite  good?"  There  was  a 
laugh  in  the  speaker's  eyes. 

"Appetite  excellent.  Of  course,  I  could  have 
eaten  more  —  had  it  been  furnished  me." 

"You'll  do,"  chuckled  the  Major. 

Le  Moyne  called  his  first  witness.  It  was  the  man 
who  had  discovered  Harlan's  body.  His  statement 
did  not  vary  from  that  given  to  the  press.  The  Ma- 
jor asked  a  few  questions  in  cross-examination,  then 
the  witness  was  excused. 

The  servant  who  admitted  Malcolm  to  the  house 
was  next  called,  and  the  Major  warmed  to  his  work. 
He  appeared  transformed.  His  air  of  unconcern 
vanished  ;  his  expression  was  no  longer  one  of  smiling 
good  nature;  his  eyes  were  fixed  on  the  face  of  the 
witness  iofra  glance  that  never  wavered,  and  noted 
every  passing  emotion  —  of  fear,  surprise,  cunning. 
In  the  drooping  of  her  eyelids,  the  crafty  lawyer 
saw  the  uncertainty  of  the  coming  answer,  or  her 
intent  not  to  disclose  all  she  knew.  He  watched  the 
slight,  muscular  twitching  about  the  mouth,  a  char- 
acteristic uplifting  of  the  head,  denoting  fear  of  at- 
tack or  defiance.  More  than  all  else,  he  was  sur- 
prised to  observe  her  wandering  glance  that,  again 
and  again,  was  directed  to  a  far  corner  of  the  court 
room,  always  to  the  same  place,  among  the  spec- 
tators. If  a  question  were  asked  her  by  Le  Moyne, 
one  she  did  not  anticipate,  or  for  which  she  had  no 


CoitrtlanD* 

answer  prepared,  unconsciously  her  eyes  traversed 
the  length  of  the  room.  Shifting  his  seat,  the  Major 
cautiously  followed  the  quick,  but  crafty,  look  she 
flashed  over  the  heads  of  those  seated  within  the  en- 
closure. One  unskilled  in  grasping  every  detail,  or 
incident,  however  trivial,  would  have  noticed  noth- 
ing unusual — simply  rows  of  upturned  faces — ex- 
pectant, eager,  ludicrous  in  their  expression  of  in- 
tense interest.  Not  so  the  Major.  He  had  not  spent 
years  as  a  trial  lawyer  without  reaping  the  reward 
of  a  large  experience,  and  it  was  this  faculty  of  see- 
ing little  things  beneath  the  notice  of  the  ordinary 
lawyer  that  had  contributed  to  his  success.  Otfcers 
looked  for  greater  things  than  chance  presented,  and 
overlooked  the  lesser  that,  as  rounds  of  a  ladder,  led 
to  heights  to  which  they  aspired.  The  Major  never 
refused  to  take  advantage  of  the  most  trivial  incident, 
and  it  was  by  this  method  that  he  had  often  turned 
threatened  failure  into  victory. 

What  the  Major  saw  was  a  man's  face  above  the 
heads  of  the  others,  his  glance  fixed  on  the  witness, 
and  in  his  eyes  an  expression  of  censure,  mingled 
with  fear. 

"Well,"  mused  the  Major,  "scientists  would  call 
this  a  case  either  of  mental  telepathy  or  hypnotism. 
Evidently  this  man  is  controlling  the  witness.  Who 
is  he  ?  A  lover  or  her  husband  ?  What  interest  has 
he  in  the  case  ?" 


180         oftjelpn  $an  CouttianD, 


"After  you  admitted  Malcolm  to  the  house,"  was 
Le  Moyne's  next  question,  "where  did  you  go?" 

"Into  the  dining  room,"  she  answered  without  hesi- 
tation. 

"Was  there  anyone  else  in  the  dining  room,  or 
were  you  alone?" 

Again  the  glance  shot  across  the  room. 

"I  was  alone,"  she  replied. 

"No,"  was  the  Major's  mental  observation,  "you 
were  not  alone." 

"How  long  did  you  remain  in  the  dining  room?" 
was  the  next  question. 

"Till  Mr.  Harlan  came  home." 

"Now  state  what  you  did  after  Mr.  Harlan's  re- 
turn." 

"I  stayed  downstairs  for  fifteen  minutes  or  so, 
then  I  went  to  my  room  and  to  bed." 

"In  what  part  of  the  house  was  your  room  ?" 

"On  the  third  floor  back." 

"Did  you  have  to  pass  through  any  of  the  rooms 
of  the  other  servants  to  reach  yours  ?" 

"O,  no,  sir.     My  room  opened  from  the  hallway." 

"Now,  after  your  master  returned,  and  before  you 
went  upstairs,  state  what  you  saw  or  heard." 

Again  she  showed  the  hesitancy,  followed  by  the 
same  searching  look.  She  answered  in  a  low  voice. 

"I  was  in  the  room  next  to  the  library.  I  could 
hear  them  speaking.  The  voices  were  loud,  as  if 
they  were  quarreling." 


^att  CourtlanD,         isi 

"So  that's  the  Government's  line  of  action,"  thought 
the  Major.  "This  girl  has  been  bought,  and  the  young 
man  in  the  rear  is  a  party  to  the  contract.  She's  go- 
ing to  marry  him,  and  they'll  set  up  housekeeping 
on  the  price  she  gets  for  her  evidence.  If  successful, 
a  very  nice  arrangement — for  them.  Should  I  at- 
tempt to  interfere  with  their  plans,  I  suppose  she 
would  consider  me  anything  but  a  gentleman." 

"Can  you  tell  me  the  subject  of  their  quarrel — 
what  they  said?"  asked  Le  Moyne. 

A  slight  flush  overspread  her  face;  her  glance 
wavered. 

"Well,"  she  began  hesitatingly,  "I  supposed " 

"Wait  a  moment,"  blandly  interrupted  the  Major. 

"I  asked  you,"  said  Le  Moyne,  "to  state  what  you 
heard,  not  what  you  supposed.  Tell  us  what  they 
said." 

Her  color  deepened.  She  was  not  wholly  bad,  she 
realized  the  wrong  she  was  doing,  and  the  good  in 
her  rebelled.  The  Major  watched  the  struggle.  On 
the  one  side  was  a  man's  life;  arrayed  against  it, 
her  lover,  and  the  promise  of  a  future  home.  Gradu- 
ally her  eyes  lifted  till  they  met  the  controlling 
glance  of  the  man  for  whom  she  had  sold  herself. 
The  look  decided  her. 

In  a  tone  that,  after  the  first  few  broken  sentences, 
grew  confident,  she  told  of  angry  voices,  charges  and 
counter  charges  between  the  two  men.  The  subject 
matter  of  her  narrative  was  disconnected,  as  might 


182         OEtoelpn  $an  CoiirtlanD* 

be  expected  from  one  who  had  listened  in  an  adjoin- 
ing room.  There  was  art  in  her  recital;  but  those 
skilled  in  judging  truth  by  a  witness's  voice  and 
manner,  and  not  by  his  words,  would  not  have  been 
deceived.  It  was  apparent  that  she  had  been  coached 
too  thoroughly — she  told  her  story  too  well.  After 
she  had  overcome  her  embarrassment,  she  spoke  with 
glib  fluency,  with  too  evident  a  desire  to  emphasize 
that  which  would  lend  color  to  the  Government's  con- 
tention— that  Malcolm's  visit  had  resulted  in  a  quar- 
rel with  a  fatal  termination.  Unless  her  testimony 
could  be  shaken,  it  was  damning  evidence  against  the 
accused. 

During  the  recital  Malcolm  watched  the  witness 
with  interest  and  increasing  astonishment — the  only 
evidence  of  his  feelings  being  his  heightened  color. 
Apart  from  this  slight  indication  that  he  was  moved, 
his  calm,  dignified  bearing  was  in  keeping  with  his 
air  of  reserve,  of  physical  and  mental  power. 

Unlike  his  attorney,  he  was  shocked  at  the  daring 
of  the  recital.  The  extent  to  which  the  Government 
would  go  to  fasten  the  guilt  upon  him  came  as  a  rev- 
elation. For  the  first  time  since  his  arrest  he  began 
to  fully  appreciate  the  seriousness  of  his  position. 
The  thought  at  once  occurred  to  him  that  this  igno- 
rant girl  could  not  have  originated  the  story  she  had 
told ;  she  could  have  no  desire  for  his  conviction,  un- 
less an  incentive  had  been  held  out  that  appealed  to 
her  greed.  Neither  could  he  bring  himself  to  believe 


CourtlanD.         iss 

that  Le  Moyne  was  aware  of  the  falsity  of  her  state- 
ment If  the  evidence  of  this  witness  was  in  keep- 
ing with  that  to  which  the  others  would  testify,  what 
might  he  not  expect?  What  must  be  the  condition 
of  Courts  of  Justice  if  such  methods  could  be  suc- 
cessfully pursued? 

The  Major,  were  he  disposed,  could  have  enlight- 
ened his  client  on  many  points  that  filled  his  mind 
with  doubts  and  misgivings.  He  could  have  laid 
bare  methods,  in  the  conduct  of  the  law,  that  would 
tax  the  credulity  of  men  less  willing  than  Malcolm 
to  accept  the  theory  that  things  are  right  because  they 
should  be  right. 

Malcolm  eagerly  watched  his  attorney.  The  Gov- 
ernment had  finished  with  the  witness,  and  the  Ma- 
jor, smiling,  suave,  and  appearing  to  be  wholly  satis- 
fied with  the  testimony,  rose  to  begin  his  cross-exami- 
nation. A  voice  from  the  jury  arrested  attention. 

"Your  Honor,"  said  a  juror,  "may  I  ask  the  wit- 
ness a  question  ?" 

"You  may  ask  it,"  replied  the  Judge. 

"Why,"  asked  the  juror  of  the  witness,  "did  you 
listen  in  the  adjoining  room?  What  was  your  pur- 
pose ?" 

The  voice  was  thin  and  irritable,  the  speaker's 
manner  not  reassuring. 

"Ha!"  chuckled  the  Major,  "there's  one  beside 
myself  who  doesn't  believe  a  word  of  her  evidence." 

The  witness  had  come  prepared  to  meet  the  ques- 


184         (Etoelpn  $an  CotmlanD, 


tions  of  the  attorneys.  She  realized  she  had  yet  to 
undergo  an  exacting  ordeal,  to  stand  before  one  of 
the  ablest  cross-examiners  of  the  state,  to  have  her 
story  tested  by  every  art  and  device  to  entrap  her  into 
an  admission  or  statement  that  would  lessen  the  force 
of  her  evidence.  Now  a  new  inquisitor  presented 
himself.  She  was  not  prepared,  and  the  juror's  sim- 
ple question  threw  her  into  a  state  of  panic.  She  had 
answered  the  attorney  for  the  Government,  encour- 
aged by  his  gentle  manner,  with  a  feeling  of  security, 
and  a  belief  that  she  was  under  his  personal  protec- 
tion. Now,  with  a  suddenness  that  benumbed  her 
faculties,  she  became  aware  that  twelve  pairs  of  eyes 
were  directed  toward  her.  The  blood  rushed  to  her 
face,  then  receded,  leaving  her  pale  and  unnerved. 
She  resented  the  juror's  impertinence  —  his  implied 
assertion  that  she  had  no  right  to  listen. 

Raising  her  eyes,  she  gathered  courage  by  the 
glance. 

"I  was  busy  in  the  drawing  room  and  could  not 
help  overhearing,"  she  answered,  after  the  juror  re- 
peated the  question. 

"Thank  you,"  volunteered  the  intrepid  juror. 

"Busy  listening,"  mused  the  Major. 

He  faced  the  witness.  To  give  her  time  to  recover, 
he  stood  with  his  hands  behind  him,  his  eyes  on  the 
floor,  apparently  considering  his  opening  question. 
Then  he  raised  his  head  and,  with  a  courtesy  that 


OEfeelpn  $an  CourtlanD.         135 

was  inborn,  a  kindliness  that  immediately  placed  her 
at  her  ease,  he  asked  his  first  question.  His  tone  was 
such  as  he  would  have  used  in  addressing  the  court. 
In  examining  a  woman  witness,  he  had  never  allowed 
himself  to  forget  that  he  was  in  a  Court  of  Justice, 
and  that  the  witness  was  a  woman. 

"I  didn't  quite  understand  your  full  name,"  he 
said  quietly,  "will  you  please  state  it  again  ?" 

"Nora  Bradley,"  she  answered  with  growing  con- 
fidence. 

She  flashed  a  look,  a  glance  of  self-assurance, 
across  the  court  room.  The  glance  said  almost 
audibly — "I  have  nothing  to  fear  from  this  man." 

The  Major  had  seen  the  look.  He  had  also  ob- 
served the  smile,  and  read  its  meaning. 

"Now,  Mrs.  Bradley" — how  suave  his  manner, 
how  enticing  the  smile  that  accompanied  the  words ! 
The  witness  beamed,  then  giggled  at  the  Major's 
blunder. 

"I  am  not  married,"  she  answered  coyly,  with  a 
becoming  blush. 

"I  beg  your  pardon,"  said  the  Major.  "Not  her 
husband,"  he  mused,  "then  the  young  man  is  her 
lover." 

She  smiled  her  forgiveness,  then  awaited  the  next 
question.  She  was  beginning  to  enjoy  the  novelty 
of  her  first  experience  as  a  witness.  Fear?  Never 
had  she  been  more  self-possessed.  She  was  amused, 


186         Ctoelpn  t?an  CourtlanU. 

her  expression  plainly  told  her  estimate  of  the  de- 
fendant's attorney.  In  the  language  of  her  kind, 
she  mentally  pronounced  him  "dead  easy." 

"But  you  are  engaged  to  be  married  ?"  the  Major 
ventured. 

Her  ready  blush  preceded  her  faltering  "Yes." 

Quick  as  a  flash  came  the  next  question,  without 
warning,  but  in  the  same  courteous  tone. 

"To  that  young  man  near  the  door  ?" 

Le  Moyne  was  on  his  feet  with  a  quick  objection, 
but  it  was  too  late  to  defeat  the  Major's  purpose. 
The  f  .ice  of  the  witness  became  livid,  but  the  Major 
paid  no  attention  to  her  look  of  fear.  For  the  mo- 
ment he  had  transferred  his  attention  to  the  man 
who  had  lent  encouragement  to  the  witness,  who,  as 
if  moved  by  a  sudden  impulse,  had  risen  in  his  seat, 
thus  attracting  to  himself  the  attention  of  both  judge 
and  jury. 

Le  Moyne  withdrew  his  objection,  which  the  sud- 
denness of  the  question,  more  than  a  serious  desire 
to  exclude  it,  had  prompted  him  to  offer. 

"Well,"  continued  the  Major,  with  the  same  smile 
of  interest,  "is  that  the  happy  man  ?" 

"Yes,"  meekly  answered  the  witness. 

"What  is  the  gentleman's  name  ?"  asked  the  Major, 
smiling. 

"Phil.  Donnolly,"  she  replied  doggedly. 

"Now,"  continued  the  Major,  refusing  to  notice 


t£an  CourtlanD.         is? 

her  look  of  hate,  "while  Mr.  Malcolm  waited  for  your 
employer,  where  were  you?" 

"In  the  dining  room." 

"Were  you  alone?" 

"Yes,"  she  answered,  but,  as  though  unable  to  ex- 
ercise her  own  will,  her  glance  wandered  across  the 
room.  Realizing  that  the  look  might  have  betrayed 
her  thoughts,  she  flushed ;  then,  glaring  her  defiance, 
awaited  the  Major's  pleasure.  His  calm  aggravated 
her.  She  was  nervously  alert,  not  knowing  what 
form  the  next  question  might  assume,  or  from  what 
quarter  to  expect  an  attack. 

"Wasn't  Mr.  Donnelly  with  you?"  the  Major 
asked,  indicating  by  a  motion  of  his  head  whom  he 
meant. 

"No,"  she  tartly  replied. 

"Are  you  prepared  to  swear  he  was  not  in  the 
house  at  the  time  ?" 

The  Major  was  pressing  his  point,  and  the  witness 
began  to  fully  realize  that  he  was  leading  her  into 
admissions  and  denials  that  later  he  might  turn  to 
terrible  account.  She  was  becoming  wary,  and  had 
recourse  to  the  answer  that  untold  thousands  before 
her  had  called  to  their  aid.  It  was  a  response  that 
had  done  service  for  the  richest  and  the  poorest, 
from  the  king  to  the  menial: 

"I  don't  remember,"  she  faltered. 

"Well,"  thought  the  Major,  "for  one  of  her  mental 


188         Ctoelpn  $an  CourtlanU* 

capacity,  she's  doing  famously.  Think  I'll  try  her 
on  another  tack." 

"You  know  Officer  Walters  ?"  he  asked  abruptly. 

The  effect  of  this  question  seemed  to  threaten  her 
utter  collapse.  For  several  moments  she  remained 
silent,  as  one  dazed,  then  mumbled  in  the  affirmative. 

"You  have  agreed  to  accept  a  stipulated  sum  as 
payment  for  giving  your  testimony  in  this  case  ?" 

This  she  denied,  but  the  effect  of  her  direct  testi- 
mony had  been  shattered.  Step  by  step  the  Major 
led  her  on,  until  she  found  herself  hopelessly  en- 
tangled in  a  maze  of  contradictory  statements.  He 
referred  to  the  time,  the  place,  even  the  hour  that 
her  interview  with  the  officers  or  their  agents  had 
taken  place.  He  was  in  possession  of  her  past  his- 
tory, and  was  aware  of  her  present  occupation,  and 
of  every  incident  of  any  importance  that  concerned 
her  since  the  night  of  Harlan's  death.  His  manner 
while  examining  her  was  considerate,  even  courteous ; 
but  when  he  had  finished,  and  she  stepped  from  the 
witness  stand,  to  court  and  jury  her  value  as  the  Gov- 
ernment's chief  witness  had  been  destroyed. 

Le  Moyne  was  worried — not  so  much  by  what  his 
opponent  had  drawn  from  the  witness,  as  by  his 
complete  knowledge  of  the  Government's  case,  of 
their  officers  and  their  methods  of  procuring  evi- 
dence. Though  he  allowed  for  the  thorough  manner 
in  which  the  Major  prepared  his  cases,  still  his 
knowledge  of  facts  that  he  believed  he,  himself,  alone 


CourtlanD*         139 

knew,  filled  him  with  astonishment,  even  dismay. 
How  the  Major  had  become  possessed  of  the  informa- 
tion he  could  not  conjecture,  and  he  resigned  himself 
to  the  work  before  him.  As  each  succeeding  witness 
took  the  stand,  fitting  in  his  link  in  the  chain  of  evi- 
dence, it  became  more  and  more  apparent  to  the 
District  Attorney  that  the  secrets  of  his  office  were 
in  the  Major's  keeping.  Witness  after  witness  fell 
before  the  Major,  usually  at  some  vital  point  in  their 
testimony  that  turned  their  evidence  to  Strong's 
advantage,  or  acted  with  the  effect  of  a  boomerang, 
recoiling  on  the  witness  with  telling  effect.  What, 
however,  annoyed  and  astonished  Le  Moyne  more 
than  all  else  was  the  certainty  that  the  Major's  suc- 
cess was  made  possible  only  by  knowledge  that  had 
come  to  him  before  the  commencement  of  the  trial. 

"There  is  a  leak  somewhere,"  he  thought.  "He 
knows  secrets  of  my  case  that  I  would  not  intrust 
to  my  subordinates.  How  has  he  learned  them? 
He  seems  to  have  clairvoyant  power." 

A  witness  known  to  the  Major  as  a  procurer  of 
evidence  and  a  go-between,  was  put  on  the  stand  to 
prove  some  minor  detail.  He  was  what  is  termed  a 
"sporting  man,"  a  high  liver,  and  utterly  unscrupu- 
lous. His  nose  was  of  a  suggestive  carmine. 

"Are  you  a  drinking  man  ?"  was  the  Major's  first 
question. 

"That,"  answered  the  witness,  with  becoming  in- 
dignation, "is  my  business." 


190         dEtoelpn  $an  Courtlantu 

"Have  you  any  other?"  quietly  asked  the  Major. 

The  jury  chuckled,  and  the  witness  refusing  to 
answer,  the  Major  resumed : 

"You  live  at  No.  —  90th  Street  ?" 

"Yes." 

"You  own  the  house  you  live  in  ?" 

"Yes." 

"Also  the  adjoining  property  ?" 

"Yes." 

"How  much  other  property  do  you  own  ?" 

"I  can't  tell,  exactly." 

"You  are  assessed  for  more  than  one  hundred 
thousand  dollars  ?" 

"Yes." 

"And  you  made  it  all  as  a  private  detective  ?" 

"I  made  it  honestly." 

The  witness  glared  his  defiance.  The  Major  had 
made  no  direct  accusation  but,  unless  he  misjudged 
the  capacity  of  the  jury,  they  thought  deeply. 

Van  Courtland  had  been  an  eager  listener.  Noth- 
ing had  escaped  him — the  impression  made  on  the 
jury  by  the  witnesses,  the  effect  of  each  bit  of  evi- 
dence, the  judge's  appearance,  the  points  brought  out 
by  each  of  the  attorneys,  and  their  probable  influence 
on  the  case.  His  courage  would  rise  or  fall  as  the 
evidence  against  the  accused  was  strengthened  by 
the  adroit  handling  of  the  prosecuting  attorney,  or 
weakened  by  an  equally  brilliant  move  on  the  part 
of  the  defendant's  counsel. 


CourtlanU*         191 

Early  in  the  day,  when  the  Bradley  woman  was 
giving  her  direct  evidence,  Van  Courtland  was  filled 
with  exultation.  Then  followed  a  feeling  of  revul- 
sion— a  horrible,  damning  thought,  that,  should  the 
Government  succeed,  he  would  be  as  guilty  of  taking 
Malcolm's  life  as  if  he  had  slain  him.  Fearing  to 
again  meet  the  eye  of  the  defendant,  Van  Courtland 
selected  a  seat  where  Malcolm  could  not  see  him; 
yet  throughout  the  entire  day  he  seemed  to  feel  his 
accusing  eyes.  When  remorse  touched  him,  and  the 
overwhelming  consciousness  of  his  own  guilt  and 
cowardice  flashed  before  him,  his  eyes  would  again 
wander  to  the  face  of  the  accused  man.  An  almost 
uncontrollable  desire  to  cry  out  his  own  guilt  would 
be  arrested  by  a  thought  of  his  daughter,  and,  weak 
and  trembling,  he  would  sink  back  into  his  seat. 
Again  his  thoughts  were  of  the  wife  who  had  tinged 
the  memory  of  the  past  years  with  bitterness,  and  of 
the  man  who  had  brought  dishonor  to  his  home.  Re- 
sentment was  yet  keenly  alive,  unsoftened  by  pity  or 
regret.  Remorse  that  made  his  days  a  torment,  his 
nights  a  sleepless  horror,  was  not  occasioned  by  the 
crime  by  which  he  had  thought  to  avenge  his  honor. 
It  was  the  wrong  he  was  doing  to  the  living  that  had 
the  power  to  move  him.  Malcolm's  face  haunted 
him,  and  each  succeeding  day  brought  its  new  pang, 
its  new  accusation. 

"If  it  were  only  over!  This  trial,  this — O,  it  is 
all  such  a  farce!"  he  mused  with  bitterness.  "Jus- 


192         (Etielrt  $an  CourtlauD. 


tice  !  The  leeches,  who,  for  the  money  I  furnish, 
are  willing  to  swear  away  the  life  of  an  innocent 
man  !  They  are  as  guilty  as  I,  and  I  reek  with  the 
infamy  of  hell  !" 

Dejection,  even  discouragement,  had  taken  pos- 
session of  Le  Moyne.  He  did  not  attempt  to  deceive 
himself.  During  the  months  devoted  to  the  upbuild- 
ing of  the  Government's  case,  his  ambition  had  been 
fired  by  the  thought  of  the  reward  success  might 
bring  him  —  Evelyn's  love.  Now  he  saw  his  case 
crumbling;  he  felt  it,  knew  it.  Whichever  way  he 
turned,  he  had  been  confronted  by  the  defense  — 
every  move  anticipated,  every  point  in  the  evidence 
met  and  parried  and  turned  against  him.  What 
mysterious  power  was  behind  the  accused  and  his  at- 
torney? How  had  they  become  aware  of  the  evi- 
dence upon  which  he  depended  to  prove  his  case? 
Experience  and  example  had  taught  him  to  guard 
evidence  closely,  until  he  had  occasion  to  use  it  at  the 
trial  of  a  cause.  No  one,  not  even  his  most  trusted 
assistants,  knew  the  evidence  on  which  he  depended 
to  convict  Malcolm.  No  one  except  himself  —  and 
Evelyn.  She  was  not  one  who,  in  an  unguarded  mo- 
ment, like  many  another  woman,  would  make  a  con- 
fidant of  one  of  her  sex.  He  would  entrust  his 
heart's  secrets  to  her  keeping.  Yet,  the  fact  re- 
mained that  he  had  been  betrayed.  How  or  by  whom 
it  was  impossible  to  conjecture. 

What,  meantime,  were  the  thoughts,  the  emotions, 


OEfcelpn  $att  Cotmlantu         193 

of  the  defendant?  Was  he  moved  by  the  evidence? 
Did  he  betray  his  feelings  of  surprise,  of  astonish- 
ment, as  he  heard  the  witnesses,  one  after  another, 
testify  to  what  he  knew  to  be  without  even  the  sem- 
blance of  truth  ?  His  face  told  nothing.  Unmoved, 
he  watched  the  progress  of  the  case,  his  attention  di- 
rected to  the  witnesses,  his  modest  and  wholly  un- 
conscious bearing  commanding  admiration  and  re- 
spect. The  Major  was  filled  with  keen  satisfaction, 
for  he  did  not  underestimate  the  impression  on  the 
jury  of  Malcolm's  appearance.  When  the  servant 
had  been  testifying  of  the  quarrel,  every  eye  had 
been  directed  to  the  face  of  the  defendant,  even  the 
Major  had  glanced  at  him  with  apprehension.  One 
look  dispelled  his  fears — the  expression  on  the  face 
of  his  client  was  one  of  quiet  confidence. 

Le  Moyne  had  finished  with  the  last  witness  for 
the  day.  It  lacked  but  a  few  moments  of  the  hour 
of  adjournment.  He  turned  the  witness  over  to  the 
Major  for  cross-examination. 

"No  questions,"  said  the  Major.  The  witness  was 
excused,  and  the  trial  declared  adjourned. 


194        u&ielpn  $an  Coimianto, 


CHAPTER  XIV. 

iWiTH  what  a  conflict  of  emotions  had  Evelyn 
passed  the  day!  The  hours  dragged  slowly — hours 
filled  with  misgivings,  hopes  and  fears.  When  her 
father  had  left  for  the  city  in  the  early  morning, 
she  could  not  but  note  his  changed  appearance.  His 
step  was  buoyant,  his  manner  almost  gay;  but  his 
was  the  mirth  of  one  whose  mind  is  in  disorder,  of 
one  who  jests  in  the  madness  of  delirium.  It  is  the 
mirth  that  jars,  that  racks  the  soul  of  those  who  are 
forced  to  listen,  and  are  powerless  to  bring  relief 
to  the  tortured  brain.  He  had  been  encouraged  by 
the  auspicious  opening  of  the  trial.  The  mind,  after 
a  protracted  period  of  gloomy  forebodings,  had 
leaped  to  the  other  extreme.  The  effect  was  a  men- 
tal condition  bordering  on  emotional  frenzy. 

Evelyn  was  not  deceived  as  to  his  condition.  For 
weeks  past  she  had  watched  him  narrowly  and,  know- 
ing that  the  uncertainty  of  the  trial  was  the  main 
cause  of  his  threatened  mental  collapse,  she  hailed 
the  approaching  end,  whatever  its  result,  with  a  keen 
sense  of  relief. 

What  would  that  result  be?  From  her  father's 
state  of  mind  as  well  as  from  what  he  had  told  her, 


OEfcelpn  $an  CourtlattD.         195 

together  with  what  she  had  overheard  of  his  con- 
versation with  Le  Moyne,  she  had  formed  the  opin- 
ion that  the  trial  so  far  portended  ill  for  Malcolm. 
With  the  thought  of  this  possibility  came  renewed 
fears,  that  far  outweighed  the  concern  she  felt  for 
her  father.  "How  was  it  possible,"  she  argued, 
"that  an  innocent  man  could  be  convicted  ?"  True, 
every  circumstance  connecting  him  with  the  crime 
pointed  to  his  guilt.  It  was  one  of  the  cases  in 
which  chance  intervened,  placing  the  burden  on  the 
accused  man  of  proving  his  innocence.  Thus  through 
the  day  she  reasoned — hope  and  fear  in  turn  taking 
possession  of  her  mind. 

Whatever  the  result,  be  it  victory  or  defeat  for  the 
Government,  she  felt  that  the  taint  of  the  traitor 
would  cling  to  her.  What  could  she  expect  from  the 
man  she  had  deceived  ?  Would  she  be  in  the  eyes  of 
all  men  worse  than  the  woman  who  barters  her  body  ? 
Would  her  own  kind  turn  from  her,  as  one  unworthy, 
and  if  she  should  ever  love,  would  fate  repay  her  in 
her  own  coin  ? 

And  the  man  for  whom  she  had  sold  her  woman- 
hood, this  man  whom  she  had  never  seen!  What 
was  he  like — was  he  worthy  of  the  sacrifice  she  had 
made,  would  he  thank  her,  or,  if  he  knew  the  price 
she  had  paid  for  his  life,  would  he,  too,  turn  from 
her,  refusing  to  accept  freedom  bought  with  a  lie — 
worse,  at  the  cost  of  much  that  a  man  reveres  in 
woman  ? 


196         dEfceln  $an  CourtlanU. 


Filled  with  impatience,  she  counted  the  hours  and 
the  minutes  till  her  father  would  return.  She  was 
possessed  by  a  mad  desire  to  go  to  the  court  room,  to 
look  at  the  accused  man,  to  judge  for  herself  what 
might  be  the  result  of  the  trial.  Laughing  at  the 
thought,  she  put  it  from  her.  As  the  dinner  hour 
approached  she  regained  her  composure. 

From  her  room  on  the  second  floor,  she  heard  her 
father  enter  the  house  and  go  into  the  library.  Din- 
ner being  announced,  she  entered  the  dining  room 
and  waited  for  him  to  appear.  Five,  ten  minutes 
went  by,  and  still  he  did  not  come. 

"Rap  on  the  library  door,  James,  please,"  she 
said  to  the  butler,  "and  say  that  dinner  is  wating." 

The  man  did  as  directed,  and  Van  Courtland,  after 
a  short  delay,  entered  the  room. 

One  glance,  and  Evelyn  knew  that  the  day  had 
brought  disaster.  His  face  was  ghastly,  its  expres- 
sion of  inexpressible  weariness  of  body  and  mind, 
pathetic  in  its  hopelessness,  brought  a  moisture  to 
the  eyes  that  met  his.  From  exhaustion,  he  sank  into 
his  seat  before  he  spoke. 

"Not  such  good  results  as  yesterday,  my  dear,"  he 
said.  "One  unfamiliar  with  criminal  proceedings, 
however,  is  not  competent  to  judge.  It's  the  argu- 
ment that  tells." 

He  made  a  pitiful  attempt  at  cheerfulness,  but 
could  not  entirely  control  his  voice. 

His  efforts  did  not  deceive  her.    His  look  and  man- 


$an  Courtland,         197 

ner  told  her  that  the  day  had  been  one  of  ill-success 
for  the  Government  Hope,  then,  was  for  the  de- 
fendant. Her  flash  of  joy  died  into  sympathy  for 
her  father.  She  would  not  ask  him  of  the  trial. 
She  must,  in  fact,  lead  his  mind  away  from  the  sub- 
ject. 

"Papa,"  she  said  gently,  "I  have  been  busy  with 
the  preparation  for  our  trip  abroad.  There  are  some 
matters  about  which  I  must  consult  with  you." 

"Make  any  arrangement  you  like,  my  dear,"  he 
answered  somewhat  impatiently;  then,  becoming 
conscious  of  his  tone,  he  added,  "You  know,  Evelyn, 
dear,  I  cannot  now  give  these  matters  attention.  I 
shall  arrange  everything  after  the  trial." 

It  seemed  a  hopeless  task  to  divert  his  mind  from 
the  subject,  which  it  had  dwelt  upon  for  months. 
Whatever  topic  of  conversation  she  introduced  was 
merely  a  diversion  that  quickly  merged  into  the  one 
great  topic  that  engrossed  his  mind.  Evelyn  made 
another  attempt  with  similar  result,  then,  rising,  she 
stood  beside  her  father  and,  bending  over  him,  lightly 
touched  his  cheek  with  her  own. 

"Papa,"  she  said,  a  slight  tremor  in  her  voice, 
"will  you  grant  me  a  favor  ?" 

"Willingly,  my  dear,"  he  answered. 

For  the  moment  his  thoughts  were  only  of  his 
daughter.  His  features  relaxed,  the  tense  lines  dis- 
solved into  a  tender  smile. 

"Try  to  forget  this  trial,"  she  said.     "Drive  it 


198         dEfcelpn  l?an  CourtianD. 


from  your  mind.  You  will  try,"  she  entreated,  "just 
for  my  sake  ?" 

"I  will  do  anything  you  ask,"  he  said,  rising. 

Habit  crushed  his  intention,  however.  Like  the 
muscles,  the  mind  may  become  trained  in  a  certain 
direction,  and  refuse  to  be  lightly  turned  aside  from 
a  beaten  track.  Allow  a  horse  to  canter  till  the  habit 
becomes  fixed,  and  he  will  change  his  gait  only  for 
so  long  as  you  hold  him  down  to  it;  relax  your 
vigilance,  and  he  returns  to  his  former  habit.  Van 
Courtland  would  deny  his  daughter  nothing  within 
his  power  to  grant,  but  unconsciously  he  returned  to 
the  subject  of  the  trial. 

"Mr.  Le  Moyne  will  make  a  great  argument,  I  am 
sure  of  that,"  he  said,  brightening. 

"I  have  no  doubt  he  will,"  she  rejoined.  Realizing 
the  fruitlessness  of  further  effort  at  conversation,  she 
asked,  "Shall  I  play  for  you,  papa  ?" 

"Yes,"  he  replied  absently. 

She  sat  at  the  piano  and  played  till  the  evening 
was  well  advanced.  Her  father  was  conscious  of  the 
sound  —  that  was  all.  Mentally,  he  was  going  over 
the  scenes  of  the  day,  repeating  the  questions  and  an- 
swers, arguing  each  point  in  favor  of  or  against  the 
accused,  living  again  the  hopes  and  the  fears  that, 
during  the  day,  had  wrought  him  to  the  highest  de- 
gree of  excitement.  His  features  were  a  play  of 
emotion,  his  color  continually  changing,  his  hands 
and  head  emphasized  his  thoughts,  his  whole  aspect 


Part  CourtlanD.         199 

that  of  one  whose  faculties  were  those  of  a  child  or  a 
madman.  How  long  could  the  strain  on  the  mind 
continue  ?  Unless  some  change,  quick  and  complete, 
turned  the  current  of  his  thoughts,  there  could  be  but 
one  result — madness. 

Evelyn  stopped  playing.  Her  father  remaining 
silent,  she  turned  to  him.  .With  a  start  he  pulled 
himself  together. 

"I  am  listening,  my  dear,"  he  said,  "play  some 
more." 

Believing  that  the  music  diverted  his  thoughts, 
she  resumed  playing.  But  above  the  sound  she  heard 
his  querulous  voice,  indistinct,  but  loud  enough  for 
her  to  understand  the  muttered  words,  raised  in  pro- 
test. His  ramblings  filled  her  with  alarm — fear  that 
his  reason,  after  the  ordeal  of  the  past  month,  had  at 
last  given  way.  Still  she  continued  to  play,  that  he 
might  not  feel  her  anxious  scrutiny. 

What  a  change  from  the  once  brilliant  man !  He 
seemed  a  child  once  more.  The  senseless  chatter, 
the  impotent  rage,  the  unreasoning  fear  were  the 
promptings  of  an  unbalanced  mind.  Terror  con- 
trolled him,  deadening  reason,  distorting  his  features, 
filling  him  with  dread  of  impending  and  immediate 
ruin.  He  seemed  to  hear  himself  accused  in  open 
court,  the  same  witnesses  arrayed  against  himself, 
and  the  spectators  gloating  and  reviling  him.  Mal- 
colm's face,  too,  rose  before  him,  scoffing,  disdainful ! 
At  last  the  man  he  had  wronged  was  to  have  his  re- 


200 

venge.  And  he,  himself,  with  his  honorable  record 
in  the  business  world,  Tie  would  take  the  place  of  the 
man  who  was  now  accused ;  the  officers  who  were  even 
then  using  his  wealth  to  convict  another  would  turn 
against  him.  And  Evelyn 

A  stifled  cry,  and  the  music,  with  a  jarring  dis- 
cord, stopped.  Evelyn  hurried  to  her  father's  side. 
He  made  a  feeble  effort  to  appear  unconcerned,  mum- 
bled an  incoherent  excuse  and,  trembling,  rose  from 
his  seat 

"I  must  have  been  dreaming,"  he  said.  "My  dear, 
I  think  I  will  retire  early.  There  is  another  trying 
day  before  us." 

He  kissed  her  on  the  cheek. 

"Could  I  not  read  to  you  ?"  she  asked,  fearing  to 
trust  him  to  the  solitude  of  his  own  room. 

"Thank  you,  my  child,  not  to-night  I  am  not  in 
the  humor — and  my  head  feels  badly.  A  good  sleep, 
dear,  is  all  I  need.  Good  night" 

When  Evelyn  was  alone,  she  made  an  heroic  effort 
to  control  her  emotion,  but  despite  her  efforts  the 
tears  would  come,  and  the  sobs  she  could  not  repress. 
She  did  not  seek  to  blind  herself  to  the  truth — her 
father  was  no  longer  rational,  no  longer  responsible 
for  his  words  or  acts.  What  was  before  her  ?  How 
would  it  all  end  ?  Sorrow  ?  Yes,  it  was  hers  in  its 
fullness — in  its  bitterness.  It  was  for  her  father's 
pitiable  plight  she  grieved.  A  physical  and  mental 
wreck  was  all  that  remained  of  the  one  who  had  been 


OEtoelpn  $an  Courtland*         201 

her  pride,  on  whom  she  had  lavished  her  devotion. 
It  had  been  his  love  that  had  atoned  for  the  indiffer- 
ence and  neglect  of  her  mother,  whom,  even  as  a 
child,  it  then  seemed  to  her,  she  had  never  known. 
Her  mother!  Yes,  her  act  had  set  in  motion  the 
train  of  disasters  that  had  plunged  their  life  into  a 
gloom  that  cast  its  influence  into  the  future.  What 
was  beyond,  no  one  could  tell.  The  future  ?  She 
shuddered.  What  did  the  future  hold  for  her  ?  Was 
she,  too,  following  in  her  mother's  footsteps  ?  Would 
the  ruin  of  a  man's  love  and  life  be  laid  at  her  door  ? 
Was  the  instinct  for  ruin  in  her  blood,  was  it  pre- 
destined that  she  was  to  pay  the  penalty  of  her  moth- 
er's sin  by  some  fearful  atonement  that  would  cleanse 
her  own  soul  of  the  stain  ?  Should  it  come,  she  would 
be  prepared,  she  would  even  welcome  it — hail  it  as  a 
deliverance,  as  a  means  of  rehabilitating  her  woman- 
hood. That  was  for  the  future.  It  was  the  thought 
of  the  awful  present  that  caused  her  heart  to  falter, 
her  lips  to  tremble,  her  courage  to  melt  before  the 
ready  tears.  Where  now  was  the  pride  that  should 
sustain  her?  Pride!  What  right  had  she  to  think 
of  pride  ?  She  smiled  at  the  thought.  Had  she  not 
by  her  own  act  placed  herself  without  the  pale  of  her 
kind  ?  Should  she  hear  her  sex  assailed,  their  prin- 
ciples, their  adherence  to  truth,  questioned,  would 
she  have  the  right  to  raise  her  voice  to  protest,  to  de- 
fend ?  No.  It  was  not  for  her.  She  had  surrendered 
the  sweetest  of  all  gifts,  the  insignia  of  a  pure  mind, 


202         Ctoelpn  t£an  CourtlanD* 

that  men,  however  base,  demand  of  women — con- 
science. The  mind  must  be  of  the  purity  of  the  body 
— unsullied.  A  Magdalene,  in  thought,  may  rise  to 
the  level  of  the  virgin.  The  body  contaminated  by 
lust,  defiles  the  earthly  human  structure;  thought,  in 
its  purity,  may  reach  to  the  very  gates  of  Heaven; 
tempered  by  viciousness,  it  sinks  to  depths  beyond 
the  power  of  the  human  mind  to  conceive. 

Whatever  were  Evelyn's  feelings  of  sorrow  or  re- 
morse, a  plain  duty  presented  itself,  rising  above  her 
personal  feelings,  impelling  her  to  immediate  action. 
She  must  get  her  father  away  from  the  influences 
that  were  threatening  his  health  and  his  reason. 
There  should  be  no  delay,  and,  far  away  from  the 
scenes  of  the  tragedy,  she  would  nurse  him  back  to 
health.  Happiness  was  not  for  him,  she  never  could 
hope  for  it;  but  she  would  devote  her  energy,  her  life, 
to  ease  the  remorse  that  she  knew  was  his. 

Listening  at  the  door  of  his  room,  his  deep  breath- 
ing reassured  her.  It  was  long  after  midnight. 
Softly  she  stole  to  her  own  apartments,  cheered  by 
the  thought  that  her  father  slept 


OEtoelpn  $att  CouttlanD*         203 


CHAPTER  XV. 

THE  last  day  of  the  trial  had  come.  Major  Strong 
had  announced  that  he  would  require  but  an  hour  to 
put  in  his  defense.  His  argument  ?  He  would  agree 
to  limit  the  arguments  to  one  hour  for  either  side. 
Should  the  Government  require  more  time,  he  would 
consent  to  an  extension;  for  himself  one  hour  was 
sufficient.  Besides  the  defendant,  he  had  only  one 
witness.  He  saw  no  reason,  if  the  Government  so  de- 
sired, why  the  case  could  not  go  to  the  jury  before 
night. 

Le  Moyne,  with  an  air  of  confidence  that  did  not 
reflect  his  true  feelings,  agreed  to  the  Major's  sug- 
gestions, and  prepared  to  resume  the  trial.  But  he 
had  lost  heart.  Who  was  the  witness  that  Strong 
would  introduce?  What  the  grounds  for  his  quiet 
confidence  ?  The  Government  having  rested  its  case, 
when  the  court  opened  the  defense  would  be  heard, 
and  he  would  not  long  be  in  suspense. 

Since  the  adjournment  of  the  court  he  had  arrived 
at  one  conclusion — the  evidence  of  the  defense,  per- 
haps its  only  witness,  would  disclose  what  now  baffled 
him — the  methods  by  which  his  case  had  become 


known  to  Strong,  and  by  whom  he  had  been  be- 
trayed, for  that  his  case  had  been  given  to  the  de- 
fendant's attorney  he  could  no  longer  doubt.  It  had 
not  been  by  any  one  bit  of  evidence,  by  any  one  wit- 
ness, that  he  had  formed  his  opinion;  he  judged  by 
the  elder  man's  methods,  viewed  as  a  whole.  After 
this  belief  had  taken  possession  of  his  mind,  he,  him- 
self, in  turn,  anticipated  the  defendant's  line  of  at- 
tack upon  the  witness.  By  adroit  questioning,  his 
opponent  would  lead  up  to  an  important  point  of 
weakness  in  the  testimony,  which,  if  pursued  too  far, 
might  direct  suspicion  to  the  source  of  his  informa- 
tion, or  place  him  in  a  position  where  retreat  might 
be  embarrassing.  At  this  stage  he  stopped,  or  gave 
a  new  and  quick  turn  to  his  line  of  inquiry. 

Thus  harassed  by  countless  minor  details,  dis- 
mayed by  the  unknown  power  that  had  contributed 
to  his  foreshadowed  defeat,  Le  Moyne  awaited  the 
opening  of  the  final  day  with  a  feeling  of  bitter  re- 
sentment. 

The  court  room  began  to  fill  up  as  soon  as  the  doors 
were  open,  for  the  impression  had  got  abroad  that  the 
day  promised  unusual  developments.  The  old  guard, 
with  the  wisdom  of  experience,  came  early,  secured 
their  former  places,  exchanged  felicitous  greetings, 
and  joked  at  the  experience  of  those  less  fortunate, 
clamoring  for  admission  at  the  door. 

The  man  in  the  gray  coat — he  of  the  faded  eyes 
and  soulless  voice — whispered  to  his  neighbor: 


Pan  CourtlanD,         205 

"These  people  act  like  a  crowd  of  boys  at  a  circus. 
They  look  at  the  defendant  as  if  he  were  an  animal 
in  a  cage — and  with  much  the  same  feeling.  Do 
you  see  those  women?  They  were  here  yesterday. 
They  are  of  the  class  that  send  flowers  to  the  ac- 
cused, and  write  silly  verses.  I  heard  one  of  them 
say  she  was  dying  to  speak  to  him!  They  are  af- 
flicted with  emotional  insanity — a  harmless  set  of 
idiots.  With  all  their  fine  airs  and  gewgaws,  they're 
not  ladies — nor  women — I  don't  know  what  they 
are." 

He  subsided  into  a  contemplation  of  times  that 
were,  and  of  the  present,  to  which  he  did  not  appear 
to  belong.  Those  who  had  inspired  his  caustic  com- 
ment were  exchanging  opinions  and  commenting  on 
the  proceedings  of  the  previous  day. 

"Didn't  Mr.  Malcolm  look  distinguished!"  one 
was  saying,  "and  that  spiteful  little  wretch  of  a 
maid !  How  I  would  have  liked  to  have  shaken  her. 
I  know  there  wasn't  one  word  of  truth  in  what  she 
said.  She  looked  exactly  as  my  maid  does  when  she's 
fibbing!" 

The  plumes  and  aigrettes  nodded  a  simultaneous 
approval,  and  their  owners  turned  their  attention  to 
Mr.  Wavily,  who  was  given  a  seat  within  the  en- 
closure. Le  Moyne  greeted  him  warmly. 

"I  thought  I  would  drop  in  on  you  for  half  an 
hour,"  Wavily  was  saying.  "I  gather  from  the 
newspapers  that  young  Malcolm  will  be  acquitted. 


206         OEttelpn  i?an  Couttlanfc* 

I'm  glad  of  it  Don't  be  offended.  You're  too  good 
a  man  to  be  mixed  up  with  'political  machine'  jus- 
tice. The  administration  of  justice,  when  controlled 
by  politics,  is  all  wrong.  That's  the  trouble  with  our 
present  form  of  government.  I'm  glad  to  see  you" — 
he  extended  his  hand  to  Van  Courtland.  "Sit  here — 
I  want  to  talk  with  you." 

The  Judge  entered,  and,  without  delay,  the  trial 
proceeded. 

Major  Strong  rose  and,  after  bowing  to  the  court, 
turned  to  the  jury  to  outline  his  defense. 

Silence  settled  on  the  room,  a  silence  that  was  a 
tribute  to  the  attorney,  the  orator.  It  was  an  uncon- 
scious, simultaneous  act  of  homage.  He  had  won  his 
right  to  their  respect  by  a  professional  career  of  in- 
tegrity ;  and  their  admiration  was  for  his  manly  qual- 
ities of  head  and  heart. 

He  spoke  in  a  voice  devoid  of  passion,  pvery  word 
distinct,  every  statement  clear  and  concise.  He 
would  show  by  a  witness,  he  said,  that  the  defendant 
was  not  the  only  person  who  had  visited  Harlan's 
home  the  night  of  the  tragedy.  He  promised  to  pro- 
duce a  witness  who  knew  Malcolm,  and  had  passed 
him  on  the  street  directly  after  he  had  taken  leave  of 
Harlan.  This  was  some  minutes  before  the  witness 
saw  another  man,  whom  he  could  not  identify  owing 
to  the  darkness,  enter  the  house.  He  would  further 
show — his  voice,  into  which  a  shade  of  feeling  crept, 
became  more  resonant — that  the  knowledge  of  this 


CourtlanD,         207 

witness  was  in  possession  of  the  Government  before 
he  had  been  summoned  by  the  defendant  to  appear 
and  testify.  He  would  also,  he  concluded,  put  the 
defendant  on  the  stand,  that  the  jury  might  judge  of 
his  guilt  or  innocence. 

Le  Moyne,  with  head  bent  forward,  his  eyes  on  the 
jury,  listened  eagerly  to  the  Major's  opening  words ; 
but  when  the  speaker  mentioned  the  witness,  Le 
Moyne,  startled,  directed  his  attention  to  his  oppo- 
nent. Throughout  the  remainder  of  the  address  the 
young  attorney  sat  as  one  dazed.  This  witness ! 
There  could  not  be  two  who  had  known  and  passed 
Malcolm.  And  the  Major  had  stated  that  the  wit- 
ness he  would  produce  was  known  to  the  Government. 
Le  Moyne,  alone,  was  aware  of  the  man's  story,  for, 
through  fear,  the  witness  dare  not  repeat  it — there 
was  even  now  an  indictment  hanging  over  him.  No, 
the  thing  was  impossible !  He  must  be  another  than 
Johnson,  the  Swede.  The  Major  was  mistaken. 

"Witness  for  the  defense  step  forward,"  cried 
the  clerk. 

"Carl  Johnson,"  spoke  the  Major. 

Had  Le  Moyne  received  a  blow  in  the  face,  the 
shock  would  not  have  been  as  great  as  when  he  saw 
Johnson  come  from  the  rear  of  the  room  and  hold  up 
his  hand  to  be  sworn.  Besides  himself  only  one  per- 
son knew  the  Swede's  story — Evelyn.  Not  even  to 
Van  Courtland  had  he  dared  tell  it.  He  had  learned 
Johnson's  version  of  his  meeting  Malcolm  quite  by 


208         OEtoelpn  i^an  Couttlanti* 

accident.  The  Swede  had  come  to  the  office  of  the 
District  Attorney  to  consult  with  him  in  regard  to 
the  subject  of  his  indictment  While  there  he  had 
told  Le  Moyne  of  meeting  Malcolm,  also  of  the  man 
he  had  seen  enter  Harlan's  house.  This  important 
information  he  had  imparted  to  the  District  Attorney 
to  win  his  favor.  Le  Moyne  had  instructed  the  Swede 
to  remain  silent.  And  now  the  man  stood  before 
him  a  witness  for  the  defense,  and  it  had  been  inti- 
mated to  the  jury  that  the  Government  had  suppressed 
his  evidence.  Well  might  Strong  feel  confident  of 
acquittal.  With  the  Swede's  evidence  before  them, 
no  jury  could  bring  in  a  verdict  other  than  "not 
guilty." 

"He  and  Evelyn  alone  knew  of  this  evidence." 
Again  and  again  he  repeated  the  words.  Flashing 
through  his  brain  were  thoughts  and  suspicions  he 
dare  not  entertain,  that  he  crushed  ere  they  assumed 
tangible  form.  He  could  not — he  would  not  believe 
it  But  his  reasoning  power  worked  independently 
of  his  will.  Inclination  cried — "It  is  impossible!" 
Reason  replied,  "You  and  Evelyn  alone  knew!" 

The  witness  was  testifying.  Le  Moyne  did  not 
hear,  he  did  not  care  to  hear.  The  words  to  which 
he  listened  were  ringing  in  his  brain,  and  he  stilled 
them  with  a  curse,  reviling,  taunting  himself  for  the 
fool  that  he  had  been.  Her  power,  her  beauty,  still 
controlled  him;  but  damnable  thoughts  would  rise 
despite  his  will,  forcing  themselves  into  the  clear 


$an  Courtlanti,         209 

light  of  reason.  Had  he  been  cajoled,  tricked  ?  Could 
he  have  followed  his  own  inclination,  he  would  have 
laughed  at  it  all  as  a  ghastly  joke. 

"jSTow,"  the  Major's  voice  forced  itself  on  Le 
Moyne's  understanding,  "you  have  stated  that  you 
met  Malcolm  and  recognized  him.  What  time 
elapsed  after  you  passed  him  on  the  street  before 
you  saw  the  man  to  whom  you  refer  enter  Harlan's 
house  ?" 

"One  minute,"  answered  the  witness. 

"How  did  you  know  that  the  house  this  person  en- 
tered was  Harlan's  ?" 

"I  had  occasion  to  go  there  once  when  Mr.  Mal- 
colm lived  at  the  hotel  where  I  worked." 

"Could  you  identify  the  man  you  saw  enter  the 
house  ?" 

At  that  instant  Le  Moyne's  glance  fell  upon  Van 
Courtland.  With  staring  eyes,  his  face  livid,  terror 
stamped  on  every  feature,  he  was  leaning  forward 
to  hear  the  witness'  answer.  He  appeared  panic 
stricken,  as  if  he  were  about  to  protest,  deny,  and 
only  awaited  the  reply  of  the  witness  before  crying 
out.  Le  Moyne  watched  him,  and  through  the  attor- 
ney's mind  flashed  the  memory  of  the  man  as  he  had 
appeared  in  his  own  home — his  strange  interest  in 
the  result  of  the  trial,  his  words  and  actions  denoting 
an  unbalanced  mind.  And  now  this  look  of  fear 

"No,"  came  the  answer  of  the  witness,  "I  could 
not  identify  him." 


210         OEtoelpn  l?an  CourtlanU* 

With  a  sigh  that  was  half  a  groan,  Van  Courtland 
sank  back  into  his  seat.  His  features  relaxed,  but 
his  extreme  pallor  remained. 

On  the  white  face  was  still  fixed  the  glance  of  the 
District  Attorney,  his  brain  active,  thoughts  and 
scenes  and  forgotten  words  and  looks  that,  in  the 
past,  had  made  little  or  no  impression,  flashing  with 
terrible  significance  before  him.  The  gossip  that 
linked  the  name  of  Van  Courtland's  wife  with  Har- 
lan's,  Van  Courtland's  fear  that  Malcolm  might  be 

acquitted,  Evelyn It  seemed  now  so  horribly 

clear.  Someone  had  to  be  sacrificed,  and  he,  himself, 
had  been  selected  as  the  victim. 

The  witness  was  speaking.  He  was  relating  his 
interview  with  the  District  Attorney.  The  jury  were 
evidently  interested,  but  not  in  the  witness,  nor  in 
the  defendant;  their  eyes  were  on  Le  Moyne.  He 
smiled  grimly. 

The  Major  turned  to  him. 

"Your  witness,"  he  said  quietly,  and  sat  down. 

Le  Moyne  rose  to  cross-examine.  He  had  no  fixed 
purpose.  Xo  thought  of  how  to  proceed  in  attacking 
the  force  of  the  Swede's  testimony  occurred  to  him. 
He  was  impelled  by  habit,  by  an  unconscious  move- 
ment of  the  mind  along  the  line  of  duty.  Was  he 
moved  by  a  determination  to  gather  together  the 
crumbling  elements  of  the  case,  to  give  new  life  to  it 
before  the  jury  passed  on  its  merits  ?  No,  that  de- 
sire was  dead.  A  feeling  of  rage  had  taken  posses- 


OEtoelpn  $an  CourtlanD,         211 

sion  of  him,  his  spirit  of  battle  was  roused,  and,  as 
he  advanced  toward  the  witness,  an  insane  desire  to 
revenge  his  own  wrong  was  paramount  to  all  else. 
Whatever  his  purpose,  the  result,  though  unsought 
by  him,  was  manifestly  in  his  favor. 

His  manner  was  aggressive,  and  the  witness,  over- 
whelmed by  his  unfortunate  position,  fearful  that 
his  own  liberty,  because  of  the  impending  indict- 
ment, would  be  the  cost  of  his  unwilling  testimony, 
was  trembling  with  fear.  Only  that  morning  he 
had  been  summoned  to  appear,  and  the  Major  had 
taken  the  precaution  to  send  an  officer  to  insure  his 
attendance  at  the  trial. 

The  questions  came  in  such  rapid  succession  that, 
before  the  witness  had  time  to  recover  from  one,  an- 
other was  asked.  J^o  consideration  or  mercy  was 
shown  him.  In  the  voice  of  the  cross-examiner  was 
a  covert  sneer,  by  implication  accusing  the  witness 
of  undue  interest,  of  a  purpose  other  than  a  desire 
to  tell  the  truth  or  to  do  justice  to  the  accused.  And 
gradually,  but  with  telling  certainty,  the  impression 
was  being  forced  upon  the  minds  of  the  jury: — this 
man  is  actuated  by  personal  feeling,  by  a  desire  to 
shield  the  defendant. 

"You  worked  in  the  hotel  where,  at  one  time,  the 
defendant  lived  ?"  asked  Le  Moyne. 

"Yes,"  the  witness  answered. 

"It  was  by  his  efforts  that  you  were  saved  from 
serious  injury?" 


212         Ctielpn  Pan  CoiirtlanD* 

"Yes." 

"In  fact,  but  for  him,  you  would  have  lost  your 
life?" 

"That  is  true,"  the  witness  answered  with  convic- 
tion. 

"You  entertain,  I  presume,  a  proper  feeling  of 
gratitude  toward  the  defendant?" 

The  voice  was  cutting.  The  meaning  of  the  ques- 
tioner could  not  be  misunderstood. 

"I  do,"  replied  the  witness  with  warmth. 

"Of  course  your  feeling  of  gratitude  does  not  in- 
fluence your  testimony  ?" 

The  words  were  harmless.  It  was  the  sneer  that 
accompanied  them  which  caused  the  witness'  face  to 
flush. 

"It  does  not,"  he  answered. 

Someone  has  said  that  a  smile  is  not  sufficient 
error  on  which  to  take  a  case  to  the  Court  of  Ap- 
peals; neither  is  a  sneer  something  that  can  be  en- 
tered on  the  court  record;  but,  nevertheless,  both 
have  their  power  with  the  jury.  When  a  judge,  one 
who  is  known  to  be  openly  in  favor  of  defendants  in 
personal  injury  cases,  says  to  the  jury  in  his  charge : 
"Of  course  the  plaintiff  testifies  so  and  so,"  it  is  not 
his  words  that  create  havoc  in  the  minds  of  the 
jurors,  it  is  the  supercilious,  insinuating  smile  that 
influences  them.  The  jury,  believing  the  judge  to 
be  infallible  in  matters  of  fact,  as  well  as  in  matters 
of  law,  promptly  bring  in  a  verdict  for  the  defend- 


OEfcelpn  $an  CourtlanD*         213 

ant.  Such  occurrences  have  happened — such  occur- 
rences are  happening  every  day  in  our  courts  of  jus- 
tice. 

In  his  examination  of  the  witness  Le  Moyne  had 
scored,  and  scored  heavily. 

When  he  had  finished,  he  was  conscious  of  a  sense 
of  relief — his  feeling  of  chagrin  and  rage  had  sub- 
sided. Not  since  the  beginning  of  the  case  had  his 
chances  of  success  appeared  more  promising.  The 
Major,  in  no  wise  disconcerted  by  the  spirited  at- 
tack, rose  to  the  occasion. 

"How  long  a  time  is  it,"  asked  the  Major,  "since 
the  defendant  lived  in  the  hotel  where  you  work  ?" 

"Over  a  year,"  was  the  answer. 

"Since  he  left  the  hotel,  have  you  talked  with 
him?" 

"No." 

"Have  you  ever  spoken  with  me  about  this  case, 
before  you  took  the  witness  stand  ?" 

"I  have  not." 

"When  were  you  summoned  to  appear  and  tes- 
tify?" 

"This  morning." 

"Did  you  know  before  this  morning  that  you  were 
to  testify  ?" 

"No,  sir." 

"That's  all,"  said  the  Major.  "Mr.  Malcolm,  take 
the  stand." 

A  movement,  wave-like,   animated  the   audience. 


214         OEtoelpn  $an  CouttlanD* 

Then  followed  a  hush,  and  every  eye  was  directed 
to  the  defendant  He  walked  quietly  and,  stepping 
into  the  witness  stand,  faced  his  attorney.  His  bear- 
ing was  self-possessed  and  courteous,  his  manner  the 
same  as  had  characterized  his  appearance  since  the 
beginning  of  the  trial.  Yet  in  the  poise  of  the  head 
there  was  an  aggressiveness,  a  touch  of  hauteur.  His 
whole  bearing  spoke  of  reserved  strength,  courage, 
indomitable  will  power.  The  eyes  were  frank,  fear- 
less, ready  to  laugh,  and  as  ready  to  flash  a  warning. 
In  their  expression  impetuous,  imperious  boyhood 
still  lingered.  He  calmly  awaited  the  lawyer's 
pleasure. 

In  an  even  tone,  willing  and  not  over-anxious,  he 
related  the  events  of  the  night  of  the  tragedy — of 
his  visit  to  Harlan's  home,  his  interview  with  the  de- 
ceased, and  his  final  leavetaking.  When  he  paused 
in  his  recital,  as  though  there  was  nothing  further 
to  state,  his  attorney,  by  a  question,  had  him  explain 
some  detail  which  to  the  witness  seemed  too  trivial 
to  mention.  His  statement  contained  nothing  new, 
no  fact  which  he  had  not  already  told  at  the  pre- 
liminary hearing;  and  when  he  finished,  a  sigh  of 
satisfaction  escaped  his  hearers. 

Le  Moyne  began  his  cross-examination,  but  in  a 
different  spirit  than  that  with  which  he  had  sought 
to  discredit  the  last  witness.  He  did  not  attempt  to 
confuse  Malcolm,  for  he  knew  and  fully  appreciated 
the  mental  capacity  of  the  man  he  was  examining. 


$att  Courtlantu         215 

On  only  two  points  he  sought  to  wring  an  admission 
— one,  "What  was  the  subject  of  his  interview  with 
Harlan,"  the  other,  "Was  it  within  his  knowledge 
that  another  beside  himself  had  visited  Harlan  after 
he  had  left  him?" 

The  first  question  Malcolm  declined  to  answer. 
His  interview  with  Harlan  was  entirely  of  a  business 
nature.  This  answer  militated  against  him,  but  he 
was  firm  in  his  refusal.  Concerning  the  second  ques- 
tion, he  denied  all  knowledge  of  who  had  entered 
Harlan's  house. 

"Did  you  meet  the  last  witness,  Johnson,  as  he 
has  described  ?"  asked  Le  Moyne. 

"Not  to  recognize  him,"  was  the  frank  admission. 

Le  Moyne,  by  further  questioning,  could  not  hope 
to  injure  his  opponent's  case  more  than  the  defend- 
ant himself,  in  his  answer  to  the  foregoing  ques- 
tions, had  done.  Taking  advantage  of  their  unfav- 
orable influence  on  the  jury,  he  abruptly  closed  the 
examination. 

The  case  was  ready  for  argument.  Before  pro- 
ceeding further,  the  Court  ordered  a  recess. 

Immediately  the  pent  up  feelings  of  the  spectators 
found  vent.  They  compared  notes,  each  with  his 
neighbor,  and  out  of  a  wide  divergence  of  opinion, 
something  like  the  following  evolved : 

"If  Malcolm  were  convicted,  he  would  have  only 
himself  to  blame."  Beyond  question  he  was  obsti- 
nate, and  altogether  too  frank  and  honest  for  one  in 


216         (ZEtoelpn  $an  CotmlanU, 

his  predicament.  Why  did  the  Major  put  him  on 
the  stand  to  testify?  And,  more  than  all,  why  did 
he  not  admit  meeting  Johnson  the  night  of  the  mur- 
der ?  That  alone  would  have  cleared  him.  They 
were  disappointed  and  incensed.  They  saw  no  reason, 
if  the  Government's  witnesses  swore  falsely,  why 
Malcolm  should  not  at  least  have  admitted  that  he 
did  meet  the  Swede. 

He  of  the  faded  coat  and  sepulchral  tones  was 
speaking  sotto  voce  to  his  companion. 

"It  will  all  depend  on  the  arguments.  If  Le 
Moyne  enters  into  a  discussion  of  the  case  with  the 
same  spirit  as  he  attacked  the  Swede — well,  I  be- 
lieve his  chances  to  be  good.  You  see,  you  can  never 
tell  what  a  jury  will  do.  Usually  in  a  criminal  case 
they  can  be  bought,  but  Malcolm  hasn't  any  money. 
Then  again,  public  opinion  decides  a  case  before  it  is 
tried.  Do  you  remember  the  case  of  the  Barbary 
girl  ?  She  was  an  Italian  and  killed  her  lover.  At 
the  first  trial  she  was  convicted.  She  was  granted  a 
new  trial.  Then  the  public,  somehow,  took  it  into 
its  head  that  she  mustn't  be  convicted.  The  female 
portion  of  the  community  became  hysterical  on  the 
subject,  and  visited  the  woman  in  her  cell,  and  sent 
her  flowers,  and  fed  her  and  petted  her.  You  know 
when  women  do  become  silly,  there  is  no  limit  to 
their  foolishness.  Well,  they  made  up  their  minds 
that  this  Italian  woman  must  be  acquitted,  and  she 
was.  Do  you  understand?  She  was  as  good  as 


CoimlanD*         217 

found  not  guilty  before  she  was  tried.  Public  opin- 
ion, at  times,  is  like  a  mad  horse ;  it  may  run  in  any 
direction,  and  when  it  starts  you  can't  turn  it  aside. 
So,  you  see,  you  can  never  tell  what  the  verdict  of  a 
jury  may  be.  Malcolm  did  not  kill  Harlan,  but  the 
jury  may  find  him  guilty." 

Since  early  morning,  Van  Courtland  had  experi- 
enced the  most  acute  mental  torture.  From  a  high 
state  of  elation,  when  the  evidence  seemed  to  strength- 
en the  Government's  case,  he  would  be  plunged,  by 
some  unfavorable  turn,  into  a  state  bordering  on  col- 
lapse, his  whole  appearance  one  of  profound  dejec- 
tion. He  was  experiencing  the  extremes  of  emotion, 
which,  to  one  in  his  deplorable  mental  condition, 
might,  at  any  moment,  bring  about  total  aberration 
of  the  mind,  or,  at  his  age,  terminate  fatally.  Indi- 
cations, unmistakable  and  ominous,  were  not  lacking 
that  he  was  losing  control  of  his  faculties.  The  court 
proceedings,  the  examination  of  the  witnesses,  the 
suspense  and  the  excitement  of  the  trial,  kept  his  in- 
terest alive,  his  mind  centered  on  some  one  object  or 
point.  This  interest,  though  abnormal,  seemed  to 
collect  and  control  his  wandering  faculties.  While 
this  tension  lasted  he  was  safe.  Fortunately  the 
progress  and  incidents  of  the  trial  deflected  from 
him  the  attention  of  those  near  whom  he  was  seated ; 
and,  up  to  the  present  time,  his  unusual  manner  and 
behavior  had  been  unnoticed. 

It  is  not  good  to  look  into  the  face  of  a  man, 


218         d&jelrt  $an  CourtlanD* 


whether  old  or  young,  when  that  face  ceases  to  re- 
semble that  of  a  rational  human  being:  —  when  it  as- 
sumes the  appearance  of  a  rumpled  mass,  colorless, 
lifeless,  without  expression,  a  void  ;  when  in  the  star- 
ing eyes  is  stamped  the  causeless,  senseless  terror  of 
vacuity,  when  the  mind  goes  back  to  that  of  a  child, 
and  the  eyes,  that  cannot  weep,  tell  of  grief  un- 
speakable, and  the  muscles  twitch  as  if  from  pain,  the 
pain  of  the  dumb,  of  sorrow  that  cannot  be  imparted. 
Then  it  is  that  Heaven,  in  its  kindness,  touches  the 
brain  with  oblivion.  All  becomes  a  blank  and  the 
senses  are  at  rest. 

Van  Courtland  was  nearing  this  condition.  He 
was  paying  the  penalty  for  his  crime,  and  who  dare 
say  that  his  atonement  was  not  complete. 

The  Judge  was  seated,  and  Major  Strong  was 
about  to  open  his  argument  for  the  defense. 

With  quiet  dignity  he  began  to  speak.  Kindliness 
and  simplicity  were  in  his  voice  and  word  and  ges- 
ture. He  was  not  only  the  great  lawyer  pleading 
for  a  human  life,  able  to  sway  the  jury  by  his  elo- 
quence, to  work  upon  their  sympathies  by  arts  of 
•'vhich  he  was  master,  or  by  his  wit  and  sarcasm  hold 
the  witnesses  of  the  prosecution  up  to  ridicule;  he 
was  more  —  the  man  and  the  gentleman.  He  ap- 
pealed to  their  intellect,  and  not  to  their  weakness. 
The  jury  knew  the  power  he  could  wield,  they  were 
aware  of  his  standing  as  a  great  criminal  advocate; 
they  recognized  his  ability,  and  appreciated  the 


$an  CourtlanD,         219 

honor  he  was  doing  them.  While  he  was  speaking, 
they  felt  that  they,  themselves,  were  taking  part  in 
his  discussion  of  the  evidence,  his  reasoning  was 
theirs,  it  was  their  opinion  he  sought  on  which  to 
found  his  own.  Yes,  they  agreed  with  him,  they 
considered  the  evidence  from  his  point  of  view,  they 
now  saw  that  which  before  had  escaped  them,  made 
luminously  clear  by  his  exposition,  his  patience,  his 
gentle  direction  of  their  minds  along  the  lines  of  his 
own  thought  and  reasoning.  He  did  not  assail  the 
credibility  of  the  witnesses,  nor  heap  abuse  upon 
them.  For  the  jury's  consideration,  in  brief  terms, 
well  chosen,  apt  and  vitally  effective,  he  laid  bare 
the  weak  points  in  the  witnesses'  testimony.  To 
only  one  witness  did  he  personally  call  attention — 
the  Bradley  woman.  He  requested  the  jury  not  to 
judge  her  too  harshly,  but  at  the  same  time  to  con- 
sider this  question: — "Was  she  under  the  influence 
and  direction  of  a  stronger  mind  ?  Was  her  evidence 
controlled  by  other  motives  than  a  desire  to  tell  the 
truth?  Had  greed,  or  promises  by  others  to  better 
her  condition  in  life,  colored  her  testimony?  These 
questions  were  for  them  to  consider,  and  to  give 
such  weight  to  her  statements  as  their  truth  or  falsity 
warranted."  But  when  he  referred  to  the  defend- 
ant, there  was  added  animation  to  voice  and  manner. 
He  spoke  quietly,  but  with  feeling.  He  had,  he  in- 
formed them,  put  the  defendant  on  the  stand  that 
they  might  judge  for  themselves  of  his  worth,  of  his 


220         OBtoelpn  $an  CourtlanH. 

truthfulness.  "Nature."  he  said,  "has  her  own  laws, 
by  which  the  heart  and  the  mind  disclose  both 
thought  and  emotion.  Hidden  motives  find  uncon- 
scious expression  in  the  voice,  in  the  eyes,  a  move- 
ment of  the  head  or  the  body.  There  are  untold 
ways  by  which,  surprised,  thoughts  make  their  es- 
cape, and  betray  what  the  tongue  seeks  to  hide.  This, 
in  the  language  of  the  law,  is  termed  unconscious  evi- 
dence. It  is  the  most  powerful  because  not  controlled 
by  the  will.  It  manifests  itself  without  consent,  and 
the  motives  or  desires  of  those  who  would  deceive  are 
betrayed.  Remember  it  is  not  what  a  witness  says 
that  should  influence  your  judgment;  it  is  only  that 
part  of  the  testimony  which  you  believe." 

The  Major  closed  his  argument  as  it  had  begun — 
quietly,  but  with  convincing  earnestness.  There  was 
no  peroration,  no  straining  for  effect.  Its  distin- 
guished simplicity  made  it  stand  forth  as  an  effort  of 
a  master  mind.  Never  had  his  fame  been  greater 
than  when  he  closed,  and,  taking  his  seat,  settled 
himself  to  listen  to  the  summing  up  of  the  Govern- 
ment's case. 

With  what  different  feelings  did  Le  Moyne  begin 
his  argument  from  those  he  experienced  when  he  had 
outlined  his  case  to  the  jury.  Then  the  rosy  hue  of 
youth  had  enveloped  everything.  He  saw  before  him 
the  realization  of  his  hopes,  and,  with  the  ardor  of 
the  passionate  lover,  he  entered  into  the  legal  battle 
with  the  spirit  of  one  who  will  not  consider  failure. 


OEtoelpn  $an  CourtlanD,         221 

His  faith  in  his  own  power  was  founded  on  a  great 
love;  and  that  love  had  been  betrayed,  trampled 
upon,  used  as  a  means  to  accomplish  his  defeat.  It 
is  by  such  methods  that  sirens  lure  their  victims  to 
dishonor,  to  ruin.  O,  the  bitterness  of  it  all — the 
humiliation!  And  he  had  been  blind — blind  with 
the  blindness  of  love  that  will  not  see.  He  had  been 
a  puppet,  a  plaything,  in  the  hands  of  the  woman 
to  whom  he  had  surrendered  the  innermost  secrets 
of  his  heart,  in  whose  keeping  he  had  placed  his  pro- 
fessional honor.  He  was  doubly  dishonored,  for  he 
had  betrayed  the  trust  of  his  office,  and  now  he  was 
feeling  the  sting  of  a  just  punishment.  What  re- 
mained for  him  ?  Nothing  but  the  rankling  thoughts 
of  one  who  knew  that  all  he  had  to  offer,  his  love, 
his  manhood,  had  been  trailed  in  the  dust. 

He  stood  before  the  jury.  What  could  they  know 
of  his  heart-burnings  ?  Malcolm !  It  was  not  of  him 
he  thought.  It  was  his  own  case  that  was  in  his 
mind,  in  his  heart.  He  plunged  madly  into  his  argu- 
ment. 

But  though  he  reviewed  the  testimony,  though  his 
scathing  arraignment  of  the  Swede  filled  his  hearers 
with  astonishment,  it  was  his  own  case,  his  own 
wrong,  that  moved  and  controlled  him.  His  words 
were  of  the  trial,  of  the  truth  or  falsity  of  the  evi- 
dence, biting,  terrible  in  their  vindictiveness ;  it  was 
his  own  feeling  of  bitterness  that  he  was  voicing.  In 
thought,  he  was  delivering  an  anathema  upon  the 


222         OEtoelpn  $an  CourtlanD. 

woman  who  had  deceived  him;  it  was  a  final  ar- 
raignment of  her  who  had  killed  his  love,  who  had 
wrecked  his  life  at  its  outset.  Though  brilliant  his 
effort,  he  was  unconscious  of  its  power,  indifferent  to 
its  effect;  and  the  silence  that  followed  his  final 
words  was  one  of  mingled  admiration,  surprise  and 
astonishment.  The  effect  on  his  hearers  was  startling 
— they  had  not  been  led  to  expect  the  passion,  the 
withering  scorn  as,  with  unrelenting  certainty  of  pur- 
pose, he  demanded  of  the  jury  that  they  consider  the 
great  crime  that  had  been  committed.  His  words 
were  of  Harlan  and  the  accused,  but  the  thoughts  and 
emotions  that  gave  them  life  and  color  were  of  him- 
self. While  listening  to  Strong  he  had  considered 
his  own  forthcoming  argument  simply  in  a  spirit  of 
duty — as  part  of  the  day's  work.  He  had  lost  inter- 
est in  the  outcome  of  the  trial;  but,  unconscious  of 
the  effect  he  was  producing,  he  had  advanced  a  pro- 
found argument  in  proof  of  the  guilt  of  the  accused. 
The  judge  began  his  charge  to  the  jury.  He  ex- 
plained to  them  the  different  kinds  of  evidence, 
dwelling  at  some  length  on  what  is  termed  circum- 
stantial, and  pointed  out  clearly,  and  in  concise 
terms,  its  bearing  and  influence  in  the  present  case. 
He  directed  their  attention  to  the  testimony,  and 
what  weight  they  should  give  to  it  as  bearing  upon 
the  question  of  the  guilt  or  innocence  of  the  accused. 
Referring  to  the  responsibility  that  confronted  them, 
he  explained  the  meaning  of  the  term  "reasonable 


OEtoelpn  $an  CourtlanD.         223 

doubt,"  and  what  the  evidence  must  be  before  they 
would  be  justified  in  bringing  in  a  verdict  of 
"Guilty."  And  here,  while  his  discourse  to  the  jury 
progressed,  we  will  return  to  Van  Courtland. 

Whatever  the  impression  made  upon  his  mind  by 
the  attorneys,  the  witnesses,  or  the  court  proceedings 
in  general,  it  was  intensified  tenfold  by  the  judge's 
charge  to  the  jury.  What  had  been  an  opinion,  or 
fleeting  fancy,  now,  to  him,  became  a  fact,  trans- 
forming a  shadow  into  a  substance,  a  doubt  into  a 
certainty.  Every  word  had  a  reference  to  himself. 
In  the  judge's  admonition  to  the  jury  Van  Court- 
land  heard  a  direct  reference  to  himself,  thundering 
in  his  own  ears,  reverberating  through  his  brain  till 
the  room  seemed  to  ring  with  the  sounds.  He  felt 
that  all  eyes  were  turned  to  him,  hundreds  of  eyes, 
accusing  and,  by  their  baleful  glance,  enforcing  their 
cry  that  he  was  guilty,  guilty,  guilty. 

He  could  not  stand  the  torment;  it  was  worse 
than  a  thousand  hells.  He  would  fly  from  it;  but 
he  could  not,  he  was  surrounded,  they  would  not 
permit  him  to  escape.  Furtively  he  looked  about 
him.  "No,  it  was  too  late;  they  were  watching  his 
movements,  and  the  judge,  still  speaking,  was  thun- 
dering accusation  and  reproach — branding  him  as 
the  murderer.  And  now  these  people  all  knew,  and 
they  cried  to  him  to  confess.  If  he  did  confess, 
would  the  voices  be  stilled,  and  the  eyes,  that  were 
burning  into  his  soul,  be  turned  away?  Yes,  he 


224         OEtoelpn  $an  CourtlanU, 


would  confess;  then,  perhaps,  he  would  have  peace 
of  mind.  How  his  brain  throbbed!  Like  so  many 
drums  beating  in  it!  But  above  all  he  could  hear 
the  judge's  voice.  He  listened. 

"And  when  you  consider  the  evidence  of  the  quar- 
rel," the  judge  was  saying,  "should  you  find  the  ac- 
cused -  " 

A  suppressed  moan  died  on  Van  Courtland's  lips. 
With  whatever  reasoning  power  was  left  him,  he 
realized  that  the  judge  was  about  to  close  his  instruc- 
tions to  the  jury.  Soon  it  would  be  too  late  to  speak, 
and  they  would  find  Malcolm  guilty  —  the  man  he 
had  wronged. 

'The  blood  rushed  to  his  neck  and  cheeks.  It 
mounted  higher  and  higher.  The  judge  had  finished 
his  charge  —  his  last  words  ringing  in  Van  Court-* 
land's  brain:  — 

"  -  and  if  on  the  evidence  you  find  that  Mal- 
colm caused  Harlan's  death,  then  you  will  bring  in 
the  verdict  of  'Guilty.'  " 

The  cry  that  Van  Courtland  uttered  struck  upon 
the  ear  with  startling  effect.  He  stood  erect. 

"It  is  I  who  am  guilty." 

The  veins  in  his  head  and  neck  stood  out  like 
whip-cords.  The  heart  sent  the  blood  with  a  rush 
to  his  brain.  He  swayed,  tottered  and  fell  to  the 
floor  —  dead. 

The  judge  ordered  the  trial  adjourned.  Officers 
of  the  court  carried  Van  Courtland's  body  into  an 


$att  CourtlattD,         225 

adjoining  room  and  laid  it  on  a  bench.  The  eyes 
were  open,  staring — in  them  an  expression  of  the 
terror  of  his  last  moments. 

The  death  had  only  temporarily  interrupted  the 
trial.  The  jury  were  called  for  further  instructions. 

"You  must  not,"  the  judge  said,  "allow  the  late 
occurrence  to  influence,  or  in  any  manner  to  bias 
your  judgment  in  arriving  at  a  verdict.  The  state- 
ment of  the  unfortunate  man  may  have  been  caused 
by  over-excitement,  resulting  in  insanity.  His  words 
you  will  not  consider.  Your  verdict  must  be  arrived 
at  by  the  evidence  in  the  case — and  that  alone." 

It  was  late  in  the  day  when  the  jury  retired.  Le 
Moyne  immediately  left  the  court  room;  but  Major 
Strong  remained. 

Within  an  hour  the  jury  returned.  As  the  judge 
was  in  waiting,  they  rendered  their  verdict  of  "Not 
guilty." 

Malcolm  and  his  attorney  left  the  court  room  to- 
gether. 

"Because  of  your  confounded  stubbornness,  you 
deserve  to  have  been  convicted,"  was  Strong's  cheer- 
ing remark.  "You  knew  who  killed  Harlan,  and, 
for  that  matter,  so  did  I." 

Malcolm  did  not  reply. 


226         OBuelpn  l?an  CourtlanD, 


CHAPTER  XVI. 

IT  was  late  in  the  evening  of  the  twentieth  of  Feb- 
ruary, 189 — ,  three  years  after  the  Malcolm  trial. 
The  interior  of  the  Russian  Embassy,  magnificent, 
spacious,  blazed  with  light.  Ambassadors  with  their 
suites,  in  bright  uniforms,  lent  to  the  assembly  an  air 
of  festivity;  and  American  gentlemen,  substantial 
of  build,  their  sombre  evening  dress  contrasting  oddly 
with  the  glitter  and  stately  pomp  of  the  Europeans, 
gave  a  touch  of  democratic  simplicity  to  what  ap- 
proached the  grandeur  of  a  royal  court.  The  beauty, 
however,  that  gladdened  the  eye,  the  beauty  of  face 
and  form,  was  that  of  the  American  women. 

In  the  crowded  rooms  there  was  one  more  stately 
than  the  rest,  with  a  fuller  beauty,  a  more  authorita- 
tive pose ; — a  touch  of  seriousness  lending  to  her  fea- 
tures an  air  of  refined  distinction.  Evelyn  Van 
Courtland's  face  betrayed  strength  of  character  in 
every  line.  Her's  was  a  beauty  that  commanded  ad- 
miration; for  she  possessed  a  personality  that  ap- 
pealed to  the  intellect  with  even  greater  force  than 
to  the  senses.  When  a  smile  disturbed  the  repose  of 
her  features,  the  suggestion  of  melancholy  in  the  eyes 


CourtlanD,         227 

never  quite  disappeared.  People  were  attracted  by 
her  loveliness  as  they  would  be  drawn  to  look  at  a 
master  painting  or  work  of  art;  only  to  turn  away, 
the  eye  satisfied,  the  mind  disturbed. 

Yet  she  had  the  power  to  draw  men  to  her — men 
such  as  listened  and  waited  for  an  opportune  mo- 
ment to  exchange  a  word — men  of  prominence  in  the 
affairs  of  the  nation. 

"Senator,"  one  of  the  gentlemen  was  saying,  "Miss 
Van  Courtland  will  hardly  agree  with  your  views. 
She  is  too  well  informed  of  the  dangers  attending 
monarchical  government  to  approve  of  our  present 
trend  toward  expansion.  Besides,  she  is  too  thor- 
oughly American." 

This  was  a  direct  appeal  to  her  recognition.  With 
a  smile  she  disclaimed  having  an  opinion. 

"Diplomatic,    if    disappointing,"    was    the    great 
man's  comment  to  her  reply.     "But,"  he  insisted 
"you  do  not  disapprove  of  our  government  seeking 
to  enlarge  its  realm  of  power,  if  the  human  race  be 
benefited  by  such  an  exercise  of  its  will?" 

"If  I  dare  express  an  opinion,  no,"  she  answered, 
"when  such  a  step  is  not  foreign  to  the  fundamental 
principles  on  which  the  existence  of  our  government 
depends." 

"Again  you're  worsted,  Senator,"  the  first  speaker 
laughed.  "Come  now,  admit  that  our  women  know 
something  of  politics." 

With  what  charming  grace  and  simplicity  she  hehj 


228         (Etoelpn  $an  Courtlantu 

their  attention!  A  word  to  one,  a  smile  to  another, 
her  manner  that  of  one  seeking  information;  her 
knowledge  of  men  and  things  as  profound  as  that 
possessed  by  those  who  listened. 

"May  I  have  the  honor  of  presenting  Mr.  Mal- 
colm ?" 

The  gentleman  who  approached  waited  expect- 
antly. There  was  no  outward  evidence  of  emotion, 
but  the  light  in  her  eyes  deepened. 

"He  is  a  member  of  the  House,"  he  added,  "from 
]STew  York — your  home." 

The  years  that  had  intervened  since  his  trial  had 
left  their  imprint  on  Malcolm.  The  eye  was  as 
bright,  the  step  as  firm;  but  his  manner  had  under- 
gone a  change.  His  former  buoyancy  of  spirit  was 
lacking;  his  youthful  self-confidence  had  given  place 
to  an  expression  of  seriousness  touched,  at  times,  with 
melancholy. 

The  past  three  years  had  been  a  struggle  to  rise 
superior  to  conditions  and  circumstances  that  would 
have  overwhelmed  an  ordinary  man;  but  he  had  sig- 
nally succeeded.  Immediately  after  his  acquittal, 
at  Strong's  earnest  entreaty,  he  had  entered  the  Ma- 
jor's law  office.  A  year's  preparation  fitted  him  for 
admission  to  the  bar ;  this  accomplished,  the  Major's 
law  firm  was  known  as  Strong  &  Malcolm.  But  the 
past  three  years  had  been  a  trying  period — years  of 
constant  struggle,  humiliation,  and,  at  times,  even 
regret  that  he  had  surrendered  to  the  Major's  judg- 


$an  Coiirtland,         229 

ment.  No  day  passed  without  a  reminder  that  he 
had  once  been  tried  for  a  capital  crime.  The  world 
does  not  easily  forget;  and  it  took  pains  to  impress 
on  him  the  fact  that,  though  a  jury  had  found  him 
"Not  guilty,"  the  murderer  of  Marshall  Harlan  had 
not  been  brought  to  justice. 

By  a  tacit  understanding  between  Strong  and  his 
partner,  the  trial  was  a  subject  not  open  to  discus- 
sion or  comment.  Once  only  had  Malcolm  demanded 
information  of  the  Major  as  to  who  had  retained 
him  for  the  defense.  The  answer  was  brief  and 
final:  "You  must  be  content  with  the  knowledge 
that  I  never  demanded  nor  received  a  penny  for  my 
services — nor  shall  I." 

Malcolm's  first  efforts  at  the  bar,  however,  met 
with  immediate  success ;  and  Strong  was  correspond- 
ingly happy.  It  was  in  the  second  year  of  their 
partnership  that  the  Major,  a  power  in  his  political 
party,  conceived  the  project  of  sending  his  partner 
to  Congress.  The  young  man  protested,  but  to  no 
avail;  he  was  forced  to  yield  to  the  Major's  desire. 
Perhaps  the  fact  that  Evelyn  was  at  the  home  of  her 
aunt  in  Washington  influenced  him  to  accept  the 
proffered  honor;  but  this  he  would  not  acknowledge, 
even  to  himself.  A  heated  contest  followed.  His 
opponents  unwisely  depended  on  his  past  misfortune 
to  bring  about  his  defeat;  but  the  Major  directed  a 
campaign  that  resulted  in  an  overwhelming  victory. 

Only  once  since   the  trial  had  he  met  Evelyn. 


230         Ctoelpn  $an  CourtlanD* 

Shortly  after  his  trial,  having  been  called  into  con- 
sultation by  the  administrator  of  her  father's  estate, 
he  had  spent  a  few  minutes  alone  with  her.  How  he 
cherished  the  memory!  Something  in  her  glance  at 
parting  had  betrayed  an  interest,  the  thought  of 
which  was  maddening;  as  he  now  stood  before  her, 
the  remembrance  brought  the  blood  to  his  cheek.  The 
others  made  way  for  the  newcomer.  Their  parting 
bow,  as  they  moved  away,  Evelyn  acknowledged 
with  a  smile. 

Her  glance  invited  Malcolm  to  approach.  She 
held  out  her  hand. 

"We  have  met  before,"  she  said.  "I  am  glad  to 
renew  our  acquaintance.  So  you  are  a  member  of 
the  House  ?" 

"Yes,"  he  answered,  "my  first  term." 

For  an  instant  her  self-possession  wavered.  Mal- 
colm's embarrassment,  however,  gave  her  an  oppor- 
tunity to  recover  her  composure. 

"I  have  read  of  your  success,"  she  said  quietly. 
"You  are  making  a  reputation.  Are  you  deeply  in 
earnest,  as  would  appear  from  a  perusal  of  your 
campaign  speeches?" 

"If  one  dare  say  life  is  earnest,  yes,"  he  answered. 

She  flashed  a  glance  at  his  strong,  handsome  face. 
How  noble  he  looked,  how  frank  his  expression! 
And  as  their  eyes  met,  the  thought  came  that  perhaps 
he  knew  the  part  she  played  in  his  life ;  that  he,  too, 
doubted  her.  Had  he  been  aware  of  her  connection 


$an  Courtlanfc*         231 

with  the  trial,  would  he  have  accepted  his  liberty  at 
the  cost  of  a  man's  love,  and  that  man  one  who  had 
trusted  her?  And  him  she  had  betrayed.  No,  the 
man  before  her  was  not  the  one  to  buy  his  liberty  at 
such  a  cost.  His  nature  would  revolt  Every  line, 
every  feature,  proclaimed  a  nobility  of  character, 
principles  that  would  not  tolerate  deceit,  and  a  stand- 
ard of  honor  that  would  sicken  at  the  thought  of  the 
fraud  she  had  practised.  Were  he  aware  of  the  truth 
he  would  turn  from  her  in  disgust.  And  with  the  be- 
lief came  a  feeling  of  respect  for  his  sturdy  man- 
hood. Power,  self-reliance  in  every  feature.  Were 
he  one  of  the  crowd  that  flitted  into  and  out  of  her 
life,  did  she  recognize  in  him  her  mental  inferior, 
her  sacrifice  would  have  appeared  less,  and  her  sense 
of  shame  greater.  But  now,  as  with  a  glance  she 
mentally  weighed  him,  grand  in  the  utter  uncon- 
sciousness of  Nature's  gifts,  of  his  own  worth  and 
power,  a  feeling  of  exultation  swept  over  her.  She 
had  saved  him;  he  was  worthy  of  the  sacrifice,  and 
he  would  never  know.  She  was  safe — safe  from  the 
fear  that  he  would  ever  learn  what  his  life  had  cost 
her.  And,  somehow,  the  thought  that  the  life  of 
this  man  belonged  to  her  palliated  her  wrong.  In 
her  glance  there  was  an  expression  that  invited  his 
confidence.  His  face  flushed  with  pleasure. 

"You  are  exerting  your  energy,"  she  said,  "and  I 
note,  so  far,  with  success,  to  defeat  the  bill  now  be- 
fore the  House." 


232         oEtoeipn  $an  CourtlanD, 

"Yes,"  he  faltered,  "I  am  interested  in  the  bill." 

His  voice  refused  to  answer  to  his  will,  and  the 
failure  of  his  attempt  at  unconcern  mortified  him.  A 
schoolboy's  embarrassment  could  hardly  be  more  pro- 
nounced. With  a  desperate  effort  he  sought  to  turn 
her  attention  from  himself. 

"You  have  but  recently  returned  from  Europe?" 
he  ventured. 

"Within  the  past  month.  I  had  decided  on  going 
South  for  the  winter,  but  I  find  Washington  too  en- 
tertaining to  leave,  at  least  until  after  adjournment. 
You  know  I  have  many  relatives  in  the  South." 

He  mumbled  an  affirmative.  He  was  mentally  ac- 
cusing himself  of  being  a  dolt.  Had  his  wit,  with 
his  power  of  speech,  forsaken  him?  Surely  she 
would  look  upon  him  with  pity — as  one  unable  to 
say  anything  worthy  of  attention. 

"You  are  a  Southerner?"  he  said  in  desperation. 

Her  face  clouded. 

"On  my  mother's  side,  yes,"  she  answered,  "but 
my  father  was,  as  you  know,  a  native  of  New  York." 

He  saw  his  mistake.  In  his  confusion  he  had 
blundered  into  the  one  topic  he  wished  to  avoid.  The 
effect  of  his  error  was  to  bring  his  faculties  under 
instant  control.  The  power  of  concentration  and  di- 
rection of  the  will,  in  the  face  of  surprise  or  rout, 
is  a  gift  peculiar  to  minds  subject  to  extremes.  A 
lover's  perturbation  had  led  him  to  open  a  subject 
to  which,  of  all  others,  he  least  desired  to  refer;  it 


CouttlanD*         233 

was  his  instinct  for  statecraft  that  came  to  his  rescue. 
He  noted  her  emotion,  and,  as  he  spoke,  he  was  com- 
plete master  of  his  own  feelings. 

"It  is  not,  I  imagine,  a  light  task  for  one  in  social 
life  to  meet  the  demands  of  a  Washington  season; 
but,"  he  laughed,  "how  should  I  be  able  to  judge !  I 
have  only  my  work  before  me.  I  am  here  to-night 

because "  he  hesitated,  then,  encouraged  by  her 

glance,  continued,  "well,  because  it  gives  me  an  op- 
portunity to  advance  the  work  in  hand.  But,"  in  a 
tone  of  apology,  "all  this  can  hardly  interest  you?' 

Assuring  him  to  the  contrary,  she  led  him  to  talk 
of  himself,  of  his  work,  and,  more  than  all  else,  of 
his  effort  to  secure  the  defeat  of  the  bill  under  dis- 
cussion. She  listened  eagerly,  enraptured  with  his 
voice,  his  earnestness,  his  eloquence,  interjecting  a 
word  when  he  paused,  or  advancing  a  new  line  of 
thought,  until  he  forgot  his  diffidence  and  spoke  with 
the  conviction  of  belief.  Trembling  joy  was  his.  The 
woman  he  loved  was  listening,  her  voice  and  manner 
inviting  his  confidence.  With  the  eagerness  of  one 
who  has  found  a  new  source  of  pleasure,  she  drank 
in  his  words.  He  awakened  her  imagination,  and 
new  thoughts  and  scenes  and  emotions  seemed  to  rise 
before  her  and  take  possession  of  her  mind — a  new 
and  strange  delight  had  suddenly  been  awakened. 
Her  mind  flashed  through  the  past  to  their  short  in- 
terview, when,  before  she  went  to  Europe,  she  had 
spoken  with  him.  And  now  his  words  revived  her 


234         OEtoelpn  i^an  CourtlanD, 

memory.  Were  her  feelings  and  emotions  those  of 
sympathy  ?  Did  her  mind  go  back  to  the  time  when 
the  possible  result  of  her  father's  act  had  filled  her 
with  alarm — fear  for  the  life  of  the  man  to  whom 
she  now  listened?  Yes,  it  must  be  pity  that  moved 
her.  Yet  there  was  a  trembling  note  in  his  voice. 
How  strange  it  sounded  to  her  ear.  It  possessed  a 
new  power  to  move  her,  to  carry  her  mind  out  of  the 
world  in  which  she  lived — a  world  filled  with  the 
insipient  platitudes  of  social  existence. 

He  finished  speaking.  With  a  sigh  of  regret  came 
the  thought :  "What  new  madness  is  this  ?  My  in- 
terest in  this  man  is  of  the  past,  not  of  the  present. 
He  has  come  into  my  life  by  accident;  his  advent  is 
simply  an  incident  that,  in  a  day  or  a  week,  will  be- 
come but  a  memory,  to  be  in  turn  crowded  aside  by 
others  that  make  up  my  life." 

"You  will  come  to  see  me?"  she  said.  'And  with 
the  request  she  was  conscious  of  a  feeling  of  amaze- 
ment. Wliy  should  the  thought  of  meeting  him  again 
fill  her  with  anticipation?  "I  am  staying  with  my 
aunt,"  she  added,  "my  father's  sister.  We  are  'At 
Home'  on  Monday  evenings." 

He  thanked  her,  assuring  her  that  he  would  present 
himself  the  following  week,  then,  as  others  engaged 
her  in  conversation,  he  passed  on  into  the  crowd. 
His  interview  with  Evelyn  had  occasioned  comment 
Who  was  this  distinguished  young  man,  with  the  con- 
fident and  somewhat  haughty  bearing?  She  had  ac- 


CourtlattO*         235 

corded  him  a  good  half  hour,  though  others,  whose 
notice  was  a  coveted  honor,  were  forced  to  content 
themselves  with  a  smile  or  nod  of  recognition.  Peo- 
ple deemed  her  cold,  distant ;  admirers  had  found  no 
favor,  titled  lovers  from  the  courts  of  the  old  world 
had  pleaded  their  suit  with  like  result — failure. 

For  the  past  two  years  her  beauty  and  brilliancy 
had  given  her  an  entry  into  the  inner  circles  of  the 
highest  European  society.  Her  victory  had  been 
complete;  but  she  had  returned  with  her  heart  un- 
touched, cold,  passionless,  unmoved  by  conquests  that 
had  been  unsought,  a  believer  in  the  talent  of  men, 
though  indifferent  to  their  love. 

A  member  of  the  cabinet  stopped  to  exchange  a 
word.  She  received  him  with  a  smile  of  greeting. 

"I  had  almost  despaired,"  he  said,  laughing.  "The 
member  from  ISTew  York  had  the  floor,  and  he  was 
wise  to  hold  his  advantage." 

"An  old  friend,"  she  said  lightly,  "one  whom  I 
have  not  seen  for  years." 

"A  young  man  who  has  a  future  before  him.  He 
is  already  marked  for  higher  things.  Have  you 
known  him  long?" 

"For  a  number  of  years,"  was  her  answer. 

"If  he  has  enlisted  your  interest  he  is  fortunate. 
Do  you  know,"  his  tone  was  bantering,  "that  your 
opinion  on  political  matters  is  becoming  drawing 
room  authority?" 

She  laughingly  protested. 


236         (Qtotlpn  Pan  CourtlanB, 


"Impossible,"  she  retorted.  "Woman's  day  and 
power  in  politics  ended  with  a  'coup  d'etat.'  Besides, 
it  is  an  art  unknown  to  the  ordinary  American 
woman." 

"Ah,  that  perhaps  is  true.  But  there  are  excep- 
tions. When  women  do  enter  politics  —  well,  usually 
something  happens.  Now  I  shall  watch  young  Mal- 
colm. He  interests  you  and  — 

"Believe  me,"  she  protested,  "you  are  altogether 
in  error.  We  met  in  the  most  unexpected  manner." 

"Nevertheless,"  he  rejoined  with  warmth,  as  he 
was  about  to  take  leave  of  her,  "I  shall  keep  my  eye 
on  the  young  man." 

She  smiled  in  answer  to  his  salute.  He  was  an  old 
and  privileged  friend  ;  somehow,  too,  his  parting  jest 
aroused  a  train  of  pleasurable  emotions;  and  she 
was  far  from  resenting  his  frankness  of  speech. 

"My  dear  Evelyn,  I  have  been  looking  for  you. 
It  is  time  to  go.  Are  you  quite  ready  ?" 

The  speaker,  majestic  of  carriage,  gowned  in  heavy 
silk,  her  white  hair  coiled  in  fluffy  masses  under  a 
miniature  square  of  dainty  lace,  stood  beside  Evelyn. 
The  old  lady  had  long  since  passed  her  sixtieth  year, 
but  her  plump  figure  was  yet  graceful,  and  refused 
to  conform  to  the  lines  of  advanced  age.  She  was  as 
light  of  heart  as  of  step  —  her  eyes  glowing  with 
youthful  spirit.  Her  whole  bearing  proclaimed  her 
determination  to  enjoy  life  to  its  utmost 


Ctoelpn  $an  CourtlanD,         237 

"I  am  ready,  aunt,"  Evelyn  answered. 

"You  are  not  going?" 

The  speaker,  with  a  profound  courtesy,  addressed 
himself  to  the  elder  lady.  He  spoke  English  with  a 
distinct  accent.  Of  commanding  stature,  his  black 
beard  and  foreign  cast  of  features  betrayed  his  na- 
tionality. His  full  name  was  as  formidable  as  his 
appearance.  At  the  Embassy,  where  he  was  received 
with  a  formality  due  his  rank,  he  was  known  as 
Count  Orrindorf.  Rumor  had  it  that,  in  Europe, 
Evelyn  had  discouraged  his  suit,  and  that  he  had 
followed  her  to  America.  He  was  enormously  rich, 
and  had  found  favor  in  the  eyes  of  Evelyn's  aunt. 

"My  dear  Count "  began  Mrs.  Chesborough. 

But  here  a  Senator,  near  her  own  age,  and  old  in 
her  affection,  drew  her  attention  to  himself.  The 
Count  addressed  Evelyn  in  French.  She  seemed  an- 
noyed, but  replied  to  his  remarks  in  far  purer  French 
than  he  had  spoken. 

For  full  five  minutes  the  elder  lady  chatted  with 
her  companion.  Not  to  be  outdone,  the  Count  poured 
a  stream  of  indifferent  French  into  Evelyn's  ear. 
She  held  his  glance  with  a  calmness,  even  a  coldness, 
of  manner,  that  would  have  dampened  the  ardor  of 
the  ordinary  lover.  Unabashed,  he  continued  to  talk, 
regardless  of  her  air  of  weariness,  which  she  made 
no  effort  to  disguise. 

Her  aunt  approached. 


238         OEtoelpn  $an  Courtlantu 

"Come,  come,  Evelyn,"  she  chirped,  the  Senator 
having  left  her  in  good  humor,  "we  really  must  go. 
Count,  I  shall  expect  you  Monday  evening  next." 

"I  shall  take  upon  myself  the  honor,"  he  said  in 
the  best  English  at  his  command. 

"Evelyn,"  said  her  aunt,  as  they  were  being  driven 
homeward,  "you  behaved  abominably  to  Count  Or- 
rindorf." 

"That  was  my  intention,"  Evelyn  replied  calmly. 

"You  don't  mean  to  say  that  you  intended  to  pub- 
licly snub  him  ?" 

"My  dear  aunt,  the  Count  is  not  endowed  with 
sufficient  intelligence  to  appreciate  my  repeated  ef- 
forts. I  doubt  very  much  if  his  comprehension  of 
any  language,  even  his  own,  will  admit  of  a  snub 
penetrating  his  understanding.  I  quite  despair  of 
it" 

"Evelyn,  you  shock  me !  Besides,  I  learned,  only 
to-night,  that  he  has  a  vast  estate  in  Russia,  a  palace 
in  Poland,  and  mines  in  Siberia ' 

"Which  you  discovered  only  to-night  ?  Why  I  could 
have  informed  you  of  all  that.  He  has  told  me  of 
his  possessions  so  many  times  that  I  can,  I  believe, 
recite  the  full  list  without  omitting  one." 

"You  don't  mean  that  you  have  refused  him  ?" 

"Three  distinct  times  with  a  fourth  in  prospect. 
As  you  were  unwise  enough  to  invite  him  to  attend 
your  'Evening,'  I  suppose  he  will  take  advantage  of 
the  opportunity." 


CourtlanD*         239 

"Evelyn,  I  can't  understand  you  in  the  least." 

"I  can  readily  believe  it,"  was  her  reply.  "I  can- 
not quite  understand  myself.  But  I  am  more  suc- 
cessful with  the  dear  Count.  He  has  a  most  villain- 
ous temper.  A  man  who  has  a  bad  temper  is  un- 
bearable, but  I  particularly  detest  one  thus  afflicted 
who  cannot  control  it.  The  first  time  I  refused  to 
marry  him  he  flew  into  a  passion.  With  his  sub- 
sequent offers  he  never  varied  the  monotony.  Really, 
my  dear  aunt,  he  even  lacks  the  virtue  of  variety. 
Here  we  are,  at  last." 

When  they  entered  the  house,  Evelyn  laid  aside 
her  wraps,  and,  notwithstanding  the  lateness  of  the 
hour,  settled  herself  comfortably  to  read.  Her  aunt, 
complaining  of  fatigue,  retired,  leaving  her  niece 
alone. 

Though  Evelyn  held  a  paper  in  her  hand,  she  did 
not  read  it.  Pondering  the  events  of  the  night,  her 
meeting  with  Malcolm  was  prominent  in  her  mind. 
The  vast  assembly,  which  represented  the  best  of 
Washington,  was  only  the  background — the  setting 
in  which  his  face  was  framed.  She  had  listened  to 
many,  but  it  was  his  voice,  his  words,  that  had  made 
an  impression.  How  strangely,  and  with  what  a  tragic 
introduction,  had  her  interest  in  him  been  awak- 
ened. Accused  of  a  crime  of  which  her  father  was 
guilty,  with  a  knowledge  of  the  truth,  yet  powerless 
to  declare  it,  she  had  moved  in  his  defence;  with 
equal  certainty  aware  of  his  innocence,  yet  forced  to 


240 

secretly  espouse  his  cause.  Then,  with  a  shudder, 
the  method  she  had  pursued  to  assure  his  acquittal 
rose  before  her  in  all  its  nakedness.  Why  could  she 
not  have  been  spared  the  humiliation,  the  remorse; 
for  to-night  the  bitterness  was  as  poignant  as  when, 
following  Malcolm's  acquittal,  she  had  received  from 
Le  Moyne  the  fan — the  token  that  he  knew  of  her 
deception.  How  the  words  that  accompanied  it  had 
stung  her:  "I  return  the  fan,  knowing  that  it  will 
not  increase  your  grief  or  shame." 

Xo,  it  had  not  added  to  her  shame.  It  could  not 
make  greater  her  remorse. 

Then  came  the  years  trying  to  forget  that  her 
father's  hands  had  been  stained  with  crime,  that  her 
mother 

With  the  thought  of  her  mother  came  a  revulsion 
of  feeling — the  bitterness  of  truth  that  could  not  be 
hidden.  Then  her  mind  dwelt  on  the  years  that  had 
passed  since  the  tragedy.  From  an  irresistible  im- 
pulse, she  had  flung  herself  into  the  excitement  of 
European  social  life,  indifferent  to  her  success,  deaf 
to  the  pleadings  of  lovers,  for  she  had  come  to  regard 
herself  as  one  who,  by  her  own  act,  had  forfeited 
the  right  to  the  respect  or  the  love  of  men.  She  had 
listened  to  their  praise,  but  their  advances  had  awak- 
ened no  answering  love;  and  suitors  came  to  regard 
her  as  one  who  was  dead  to  all  feeling.  Beauty? 
Yes,  they  acknowledged  her  great  beauty,  but  her's 
was  the  beauty  that  chills,  that  is  without  heart  or 


OEtoelpn  $an  CourtlanD,         241 

soul.  In  her  no  answering  flame  of  passion  lived 
that  could  be  awakened. 

And  now  she  had  again  met  the  man  for  whose 
life  she  had  battled,  for  whom  she  had  suffered. 
Often  she  had  asked  herself: — "Is  he  worthy  of  it 
all  ?"  and  to-night  had  come  the  assurance,  an  an- 
swering "yes." 

A  sweet  satisfaction  took  possession  of  her  being. 
A  soft  flush  suffused  her  cheeks,  a  smile  giving 
warmth  and  light  to  the  expression  of  her  eyes  and 
features. 

Mechanically  her  glance  fell  upon  the  paper  that 
lay  in  her  lap.  With  a  delicious  sense  of  languor 
which  the  warmth  and  the  silence  invited,  she  looked 
at  the  column  of  "Society  Notes."  She  read  only  one 
item,  the  first  to  attract  her  attention.  "Mrs.  How- 
ard Van  Courtland  has  returned  from  the  South, 
and  will  remain  in  town  during  the  season." 

It  was  as  if  a  cold  breath  of  wind  had  swept 
across  her  features;  the  habitual  expression  of  re- 
serve returned.  Rising,  she  walked  slowly  to  the 
mantel  and  leaned  against  it.  Her  manner  was  com- 
posed, her  expression  that  of  one  who  confronts  a 
problem  defying  solution.  A  slight  curling  of  the 
lips,  a  compression  of  the  lines  about  the  mouth, 
spoke  of  an  inward  struggle.  Every  instinct  of  her 
nature  combined  against  the  voice  within  her  that 
cried: — "Charity,  she  is  your  mother.  Her  blood 
flows  in  your  veins,  it  was  she  who  gave  you  life. 


242         OBtoelpn  $an  CourtlanU* 

Do  not  condemn,  for  you  know  not  what  the  future 
may  have  in  store  for  you." 

The  promptings  of  her  nature  pointed  to  this  as 
the  true  way,  a  voice  within  her  cried  loudly  to  have 
pity.  Her  heart  melted  with  compassion,  and,  were 
her  mother  at  her  feet,  she  would  have  been  moved 
to  lift  her  gently,  tenderly,  breathing  forgiveness. 
But  another  voice  cried :  "Remember  your  father !  It 
was  he  who  suffered,  he  who  paid  the  debt  with  his 
life,"  and  the  remembrance  crushed  her  impulse  of 
compassion. 

"Why  has  she  come  here  ?"  she  mused,  "why  could 
she  not  have  remained  out  of  my  life?  No,  it  is 
fate  that  has  spoken,  that  now  speaks." 

In  her  veins  was  the  taint  of  her  mother's  blood — 
a  taint  that  might  not  be  controlled,  exerting  over 
her  an  influence  that  human  will  was  powerless  to 
avert,  impregnating  the  heart  and  the  mind  with  its 
baneful  influence,  that  only  sin  and  the  destruction 
of  the  soul  could  appease.  And  time  would  only  in- 
crease the  craving.  All  moral  restraint  might  relax 
and  be  swept  beyond  control,  nature  would  become 
gross,  deformed,  and  over  her  life  would  descend 
the  blackness  of  a  living  hell. 

.Was  her  past  treatment  of  Le  Moyne  but  following 
her  natural  instinct  ?  Was  it  the  first  step  that  was 
to  lead  her — where  ?  She  dared  not  think  what  the 
answer  might  be.  The  curse !  Already  she  had  felt 
its  power.  Had  it  not  laid  its  imprint  on  her  peace 


CourtlanD.         243 

of  mind  ?  Had  not  her  father  given  his  life — a  life 
sacrificed  to  her  mother's  dishonor?  But  whatever 
the  past,  and  the  tragedy  so  close  to  her,  it  was  the 
present  that  now  confronted  her.  She  must  meet 
her.  She  was  certain  to  encounter  her  in  their  com- 
mon social  circle.  It  was  destiny;  she  felt  it,  she 
knew  it — it  was  the  working  out  of  the  great  plan  of 
life,  complex  in  its  design,  unalterable  in  its  ultimate 
results. 


244         OBtoelpn  $att  CouttlanD* 


CHAPTER  XVII. 

LATE  in  the  morning  of  the  following  day,  Evelyn 
and  her  aunt  were  discussing  the  events  of  the  past 
night.  Her  niece's  apparent  indifference  to  her  fu- 
ture, her  treatment  of  the  Count  and  her  refusal  to 
discuss  present  or  past  suitors,  roused  the  ire  of  the 
old  lady,  who  could  not  understand  what  she  desig- 
nated inexcusable  lack  of  appreciation.  Mrs.  Ches- 
borough  fretted,  and  mildly  reproached  Evelyn,  re- 
minding her  that  the  Russian's  great  wealth,  apart 
from  his  title  and  social  prominence,  was  a  factor 
that  any  young  woman  should  consider. 

"My  dear  aunt,"  was  Evelyn's  reply,  "pray  dis- 
miss the  subject  from  your  mind.  For  me,  marriage 
is  simply  out  of  the  question.  I  have  decided  to  re- 
main single,  and,  with  Heaven's  aid,  become  old  with 
distinguished  grace — like  your  dear  self." 

"There,  Evelyn,  you  were  always  an  adept  at 
pretty  speeches.  That  is  one  reason  why  the  gentle- 
men are  fond  of  you.  But  seriously " 

"Life  is  all  seriousness.  Why  deliberately  add  to 
it?  I  shall  not  marry.  Now  tell  me,  fairy  god- 
mother, whom  you  expect  Monday  evening?" 


(Etoelpn  $an  CoimianD,         245 

Instantly  the  old  lady's  patrician  features 
became  animated.  Her  "Evenings"  had  with- 
stood the  clash  of  warring  social  elements.  By 
her  consummate  tact  and  acknowledged  author- 
ity, her  drawing  room  had  retained  its  old 
time  prestige.  It  was  yet  the  neutral  ground 
where  talent,  brilliancy,  and  statesmanship,  regard- 
less of  political  creed  or  warring  factions,  fraternized, 
and  united  in  paying  homage  to  the  acknowledged 
ability  of  the  hostess.  In  her  rooms  had  gathered 
men  who  had  made  the  history  of  the  nation;  great 
movements  had  here  been  planned,  and  from  here, 
too,  causes  of  vital  moment  to  the  Government  had 
been  directed.  Sumner,  Lincoln,  Grant — these  men 
had  been  her  friends ;  so  had  been  the  great  men  that 
had  followed  them.  Unlike  those  who  attempted  to 
attract  and  hold  together  men  and  women  of  talent 
and  brains,  social  leaders  whose  efforts  had  flashed 
into  life  with  meteoric  brilliancy,  only  to  die  as 
quickly,  her  "Evenings"  had  survived. 

Evelyn  had  touched  upon  the  one  topic  that  had 
power  to  kindle  her  aunt's  pride  and  enthusiasm. 
From  memory,  she  recited  a  list  of  those  who  never 
missed  an  "Evening."  Then,  more  slowly,  she 
named  the  guests  newly  on  her  list;  "and,"  she  con- 
cluded, "the  last,  which,  by  right  of  precedence 
should  be  the  first,  is  the  Count." 

"Dear  me,"  observed  Evelyn,  "I  neglected  to  in- 
vite him.  I  had  hoped  that  we  might  be  free  of  him 


246 


for  one  night  at  least.  But  I  have  taken  the  liberty 
to  invite  Mr.  Malcolm — a  new  member  of  the  House 
from  New  York." 

"Who  is  he?"  her  aunt  demanded.  "Is  he  some 
one  you  know  intimately  ?" 

"Yes." 

"Where  have  you  known  him,  my  dear  ?" 

"In  New  York/'  she  answered.  Then,  as  if  she 
feared  further  questioning,  she  hurried  on:  "I  wish, 
auntie,  you  would  make  him  acquainted  with  some 
nice  people,  some  of  your  older  friends  who — those 
whose  friendship  would  be  of  value  to  him.  There 
are  so  many " 

"Ah,  you  seem  to  take  a  marked  interest  in  the 
young  man.  I  shall  want  to  learn  more  of  him. 
Can  he  talk?" 

"You  will  find  him  agreeable,"  was  the  evasive 
reply.  "He  is  just  now  interested  in  a  bill  that  is 
before  the  House.  Senator  Dafue  will  be  here. 
You  can  manage  to  bring  Mr.  Malcolm  to  his  notice. 
Your  introduction " 

"Evelyn,  I  don't  wish  you  to  mingle  in  politics. 
One  of  your  age  should  not  attempt  it.  Is  this  Mr. 
Malcolm  a  protege  of  yours?  Oh,  I  shall  acquaint 
myself  with  his  history.  Of  course  I  shall  be  civil 
to  him,  but  I  hope  that,  at  least,  he  can  converse  in- 
telligently. I  cannot  tolerate  dull  people." 

"You  will  not  find  him  dull.  Already  he  has,  I 
understand,  made  something  of  a  reputation.  Any- 


OEtoelpn  $an  CotmlanO*         247 

way,  he  deserves  to  succeed,  and  a  word  from  you, 
auntie,  to  the  right  people " 

"My  dear  Evelyn,  do  you  expect  me  to  take  this 
young  man  under  my  wing  ?  Why,  I  have  never  seen 
him.  Of  course  I  have  heard  the  name  before.  Mal- 
colm !  Why  that  is  the  name  of  the  young  man  who 
figured  in  the  Harlan  case.  Surely,  my  dear,  he 
can't  he  the  same." 

Evelyn  flushed. 

"He  is,"  she  answered  quietly. 

"Astonishing!  And  you  expect  me,  Evelyn,  to 
entertain  him — and  introduce  him  to  the  most  influ- 
ential people  that  come  to  see  me  ?  To  act,  in  fact, 
as  his  sponsor  ?" 

"He  was  honorably  acquitted,"  said  Evelyn  in  an 
even  tone. 

"And  that  trial  caused  the  death  of  your  father — 
my  dear  brother  Howard." 

Every  line  of  her  refined,  gentle  face,  was  one  of 
protest  The  thought  of  receiving  in  her  home  a 
man  who  had  been  accused  of  the  crime  of  murder 
shocked  her  sensibilities;  but  that  the  suggestion 
should  come  from  her  own  brother's  child — she  al- 
most doubted  her  ears. 

"Auntie,  dear,  for  my  father's  tragic  death  Mr. 
Malcolm  is  no  more  responsible  than  I  am.  Our 
own  misfortune  was  great,  but  so  was  the  wrong  done 
Mr.  Malcolm.  Surely  you  would  not  condemn  a  man 
whose  innocence  was  established." 


248         dEtoelpn  $an  CotirtlanD, 

"But,  my  dear,  the  guilty  one  has  never  been  dis- 
covered." 

"And  I  trust  never  will  be."  Evelyn's  voice  was 
tremulous.  Her  arms  stole  about  her  aunt's  neck. 
"You  will  receive  him,  auntie  ?" 

"Well,  my  dear,  I  can't  deny  you,  if  you  wish  it. 
But  really  I  am  at  a  loss  to  understand  your  moods 
and  your  strange  fancies.  You  are  so  like  your 
father ;  yet  so  unlike  him.  What  is  it,  James  ?" 

A  servant  had  entered,  holding  a  salver  on  which 
lay  a  visiting  card.  The  old  lady  put  her  glasses  to 
her  eyes  and,  after  glancing  at  the  card,  replaced  it 
on  the  salver.  She  had  grown  suddenly  pale,  but 
otherwise  appeared  unmoved. 

"The  lady  is  waiting?"  she  asked. 
"In  the  drawing  room,  ma'am." 
The  servant  retired. 

"Your  mother,"  she  said  to  Evelyn,  in  a  trembling 
voice.  "I  cannot  see  her.  I  will  not  see  her." 

At  the  mention  of  her  mother,  Evelyn  rose  in  agi- 
tation. 

"Did  you  know  she  was  in  town  ?"  the  old  lady  de- 
manded. 

"Yes,"  came  the  faltering  answer.  "Believing  it 
would  annoy  you,  I  did  not  mention  it.  You  need 
not  meet  her;  I  will  speak  to  her." 

A  silence  followed.  The  thoughts  of  both  women 
were  of  the  father,  of  the  wrong  that  had  been  done 
him,  and  of  the  woman  who  had  mercilessly  driven 


CourtlanD,         249 

him  to  commit  the  deed  by  which  he  sought  to  avenge 
his  honor.  The  knowledge  of  the  elder  woman  was 
confined  to  her  brother's  unhappy  life;  but  Evelyn 
was  aware  of  the  cause  that  had  led  to  his  tragic  end. 
In  the  daughter's  eyes,  her  mother  was  as  guilty  as  if, 
with  her  own  hand,  she  had  struck  a  blow  that  had 
caused  her  father's  death.  For  the  mental  torture 
he  had  endured,  there  could  be  no  adequate  atone- 
ment. When  living,  each  day,  each  hour,  had  added 
its  new  terror,  its  new  qualm  of  remorse.  With  a 
mind  distorted  by  fear,  each  succeeding  night  had 
held  its  agony,  the  mind  less  capable  of  preserving 
its  balance,  until  the  fatal  climax  was  reached.  Yes, 
Evelyn  was  satisfied  when  death  brought  relief.  The 
body  was  at  least  free  of  torment ;  the  soul — let  those 
who  dare,  judge  him. 

And  now,  for  the  first  time  since  her  father's 
death — her  mother  was  in  Europe  at  the  time — she 
must  meet  the  woman  who  was  the  cause  of  the 
tragedy.  The  young  girl  called  to  her  aid  all  her 
power  of  self-control.  She  would  meet  her  mother 
in  a  spirit  of  gentleness,  of  forgiveness.  She  would 
hide  from  her  the  grief  that  their  meeting  would  call 
to  life,  and  crush  the  stinging  sense  of  resentment 
and  shame  that,  even  then,  threatened  her  composure. 
A  filial  duty  was  plainly  hers — a  duty  that,  though 
not  prompted  by  affection,  appealed  to  her  womanly 
instincts.  She  would  stifle  the  burning  words  that 
trembled  on  her  lips ;  and  in  her  eyes  there  would  be 


250         Ctoelpn  l£an  Courtlanli, 

no  accusation.  She  crushed  the  thought  that  in  her 
own  veins  flowed  her  mother's  blood,  that  by  natural 
descent  there  lurked  in  her  own  being  dormant  in- 
stincts that  might  yet  flame  into  life.  It  was  this 
thought,  more  than  any  other,  that  threatened  her 
self-control.  Yet  she  would  not  give  way — she  must 
not.  For  the  sake  of  her  father's  memory,  she  would 
be  brave  and  calm.  Pity  would  temper  her  coming 
interview;  she  would  add  no  word  to  the  sorrow  and 
the  remorse  that  her  mother  must  feel. 

When  Evelyn  entered  the  drawing  room,  however, 
every  chastening  impulse  of  pity,  of  compassion, 
even  respect,  seemed  to  die  within  her.  In  her 
mother's  appearance  and  manner  was  the  same  calm, 
high  bred  air,  disdainful,  repellant  in  its  self-con- 
fidence and  entire  lack  of  maternal  feeling.  She  was 
a  woman  dominated  by  passion — passion  that  left 
the  heart  untouched.  She  was  faultlessly  gowned. 
Her  figure  was  still  youthful  and,  if  possible,  she  was 
more  beautiful  than  when,  three  years  before,  Evelyn 
had  last  seen  her.  At  sight  of  her,  a  chill  seemed  to 
clutch  at  the  girl's  heart.  Before  entering  the  room, 
she  was  conscious  of  a  dim  hope  that  perhaps  her 
meeting  with  her  mother  would  lead  to  a  better  un- 
derstanding, and  make  a  reunion  possible.  It  had 
been  more  an  impression  than  a  thought.  Her  moth- 
er's first  words  dispelled  it  It  was  the  woman  who 
spoke,  not  the  mother. 

"To  see  my  own  child,"  she  said,  "I  am  compelled 


OEtielpn  l^an  Courtland.         251 

to  come  to  the  home  of  one  who  refuses  to  receive 
me.  I  am  shown  into  a  room  and  obliged  to  wait 
your  pleasure.  Where  is  your  aunt?" 

The  tones  were  the  same  as  of  old,  bantering,  tan- 
talizing; in  her  glance  lurked  scoffing  disdain  and 
defiance. 

"Be  seated,"  said  Evelyn.  "You  know  my  aunt's 
feelings.  She  does  not  care  to  see  you." 

"Your  frankness  is  refreshing.  I  suppose  that 
henceforth  the  servants  will  be  instructed  not  to  ad- 
mit me.  And  you  remain  in  a  house  in  which  your 
mother  is  refused  admittance.  Am  I  to  understand 
that  is  your  intention?" 

"It  is.     I  have  no  other  home " 

"And  you  refuse  to  live  under  the  same  roof  with 
me.  I  suppose,  too,  your  esteemed  aunt  will  carry 
her  warfare  into  society,  and  I  may  expect  her 
friends  to  take  up  her  cause." 

"My  aunt  has  no  such  intention,"  Evelyn  an- 
swered. "It  is  better  that  you  do  not  meet.  She  has 
not  yet  recovered  from  the  shock  occasioned  by  my 
father's  death.  Her  grief  is  keenly  alive.  Surely 
you  have  no  desire  to  add  to  it." 

"Again  your  aunt  and  her  grief!  /  am  not  con- 
sidered." 

Evelyn's  face  flushed,  but  she  held  her  resentment 
in  check.  Her  calmness  tended  to  increase  her  moth- 
er's anger. 

"My  aunt,"  Evelyn  answered,  "has  no  desire  to 


252         (Etoelpn  $an  CourtlanD, 


interfere  with  you,  or  to  cause  you  any  annoyance. 
But  she  has  feelings,  and  those  feelings  you  should 
respect.  While  my  father  lived,  it  was  necessary  for 
you  to  meet  —  to  maintain,  at  least,  the  appearances 
of  friendly  relations.  His  death  changed  all  that. 
Now  no  reason  exists  for  prolonging  an  intimacy 
that  has  always  been  as  distasteful  to  you  as  to  my 
aunt" 

"Evelyn,  you  talk  like  a  simpleton!  I  care  noth- 
ing for  her  hate  ;  but  I  do  for  her  notice.  Her  social 
influence  is  greater  than  that  of  any  woman  in 
Washington.  Should  it  become  known  that  I  am  not 
received  here,  every  person  worth  knowing  would 
simply  cut  me.  I  will  not  submit  to  it." 

"And  is  that  the  only  motive  which  moves  you  to 
seek  her  friendship  —  purely  social  recognition?" 

"That,  and  that  only!  My  personal  opinion  of 
her  remains  unchanged.  I  think  her  a  spiteful  old 
cat!" 

"She  is  my  father's  sister.  Need  I  add  that  I 
dearly  love  her  ?" 

"Now  it's  your  father's  sister.  Are  you  going  to 
force  me  to  listen  to  a  recital  of  the  many  virtues  in- 
herent in  her  family?" 

The  covert  allusion  to  her  father  aroused  Evelyn's 
indigation;  the  laugh  that  accompanied  the  words 
grated  on  her  nerves.  It  was  with  the  same  aggra- 
vating, taunting  laugh  that  her  mother  had  met  her 
father's  charges.  Evelyn's  memory  flashed  back  to 


$att  Cotmlattlr*         253 

the  time  when  she  had  listened  to  the  awful  words. 
She  again  heard  her  father's  voice,  the  tones  ringing 
with  passion ;  and  the  scoffing  laugh,  to  which  she  had 
just  listened,  was  as  an  echo  of  that  fatal  night.  It 
roused  her  to  a  sense  of  her  loss,  of  her  shame ;  but, 
more  than  all  else,  the  wrong  done  her  father  rose 
before  her  with  avenging  clearness.  She  had  come 
to  meet  her  mother  resolved  to  control  her  feelings, 
to  forget,  so  far  as  lay  in  her  power,  the  suffering 
that  her  mother's  act  had  occasioned.  But  she  was 
human.  With  the  reflection  on  her  father  and  his 
family,  the  disdainful  laugh  vibrating  in  her  brain, 
her  determination  to  meet  her  mother  in  a  spirit  of 
forbearance  vanished.  A  full  sense  of  her  mother's 
heartlessness  roused  every  feeling  of  resentment  in 
her  nature. 

"While  you  remain,"  said  Evelyn,  calmly,  "I 
must  ask  you  not  again  to  mention  my  father's 
name." 

She  spoke  in  a  low  voice,  but  there  was  a  note  of 
warning  in  the  tone.  From  her  eyes  there  flashed  a 
gleam  before  which  the  other  woman  quailed.  She 
saw  in  it  the  courage  and  determination  of  Van 
Courtland;  but  it  roused  her  to  a  sense  of  the  posi- 
tion in  which  she  was  placed.  A  word  from  Evelyn's 
aunt  and  she  would  face  social  ostracism.  The 
thought  enraged  her.  Casting  aside  every  vestige  of 
caution,  or  regard  for  her  daughter's  feelings,  she 
surrendered  to  her  passions. 


254         Ctoelpn  l^an  CotmlanD* 

"Does  your  aunt  know  who  killed  Marshall  Har- 
lan?" 

Her  voice  ended  in  a  hysterical  cry,  and  the  silence 
that  followed  was  broken  only  by  the  sound  of  her 
heavy  breathing.  It  was  not  the  subject  of  her  ques- 
tion that  had  occasioned  her  present  state  of  excite- 
ment ;  it  was  fear  for  her  future,  for  her  social  posi- 
tion, that  found  expression  in  her  outburst  of  rage. 
All  that  appealed  to  her  understanding  was  that  her 
social  status  was  menaced,  her  ambition  to  shine  as 
a  leader  was  to  be  thwarted,  her  desire  defeated  by 
the  woman  who  had  been  the  first  to  discover  her  in- 
fatuation for  Harlan.  The  thought  had  driven  her 
into  a  frenzy  that  had  found  vent  in  her  excited  out- 
burst. 

Evelyn  was  stunned  as  much  by  her  mother's  lack 
of  control,  as  by  the  brutal  question  and  the  charge  it 
implied. 

All  the  sorrow  and  shame  of  the  past  years  seemed 
to  take  possession  of  her  with  overwhelming  force. 
Her  mother's  true  character,  as  she  asked  the  ques- 
tion, seemed  to  be  disclosed  in  all  its  selfishness  and 
lack  of  feeling.  The  young  girl  saw  her  in  a  true 
light,  stripped  of  her  social  veneer  and  scoffing  dis- 
dain : — her  disregard  of  the  feelings  of  the  living  was 
equaled  only  by  her  contempt  for  the  memory  of  her 
dead  husband.  But  the  elder  woman  had  not  paused 
to  consider  the  pride  and  the  courage  of  her  only 
child.  Evelyn's  eyes  flamed,  her  whole  being  palpi- 


OEtoelpn  ^att  CourtlanD,         255 

tated  with  passion.  Whatever  sense  of  filial  love  or 
respect  had  survived,  at  that  moment  died.  She 
stood  erect,  the  avenger  of  her  father's  wrong,  the 
accuser  of  her  own  mother. 

Her  words  fell  upon  the  listening  ear  with  terrible, 
relentless  distinctness,  her  language  stripped  of  the 
verbiage  of  conventional  custom,  her  meaning  clear 
and  unequivocal.  She  rent  asunder  the  social  band- 
age that  hid  from  the  eye  her  mother's  moral  scar, 
and  laid  it  bare  in  all  the  infamy  of  its  guilt  and  dis- 
honor. The  remembrance  of  her  father's  face,  as 
she  had  last  seen  him  alive,  was  before  her,  impelling 
her,  until  she  lost  sight  of  all  else  but  the  memory  of 
his  haunted  look.  If  the  tie  that  existed  between 
them  cried  to  her  to  have  mercy,  the  thought  was 
crushed  by  the  consciousness  that  the  woman  before 
her  had  been  incapable  of  pity. 

At  first,  amazement  kept  her  mother  silent.  This 
was  followed  by  defiance;  then  the  torrent  of  re- 
proach, invective  and  piercing  truth,  awakened  in 
turn  fear,  shame  and  appeals  for  mercy.  Evelyn's 
tones  became  subdued,  and  a  note  of  sorrow  crept  in- 
to her  voice. 

"Had  you  shown  mercy  to  my  father,"  she  con- 
cluded, "had  you  considered  the  name  and  the  honor 
that  he  gave  into  your  keeping,  he  would  to-day  be 
alive.  You  ask  who  killed  Marshall  Harlan  ?  I  ask 
you  now  who  is  responsible  for  my  father's  death? 
Look  into  your  own  heart,  and  you  will  find  there 


256         oftjeltt  $att  CourtlattD* 


the  answer.  You  struct  at  his  honor,  his  peace  of 
mind,  at  all  that  a  man  of  his  character  and  sensi- 
bility hold  dear.  You  dragged  his  name  in  the  mire, 
and  left  to  me  the  heritage  of  your  own  shame.  Per- 
haps in  future  years  the  blood  in  me  that  is  yours 
will  awaken  desires,  to  be  appeased  only  by  the  sacri- 
fice of  a  man's  honor.  Then  —  then  I  shall  revile  — 
perhaps  curse  you." 

The  woman  who  had  entered  the  room  strong  in 
her  arrogance  and  pride,  left  it  crushed  in  spirit  at 
the  sight  of  her  inner  self,  her  soul  laid  bare  in  all 
its  weakness,  the  mirror  held  before  her  eyes  in  its 
revolting  truthfulness  by  her  own  daughter. 

At  the  door,  Evelyn  turned  from  her,  sick  at  heart. 


OEtoelpn  pan  CourtlanD.         257 


CHAPTER  XVIII 

From  the  moment  of  Malcolm's  meeting  with 
Evelyn  a  new  interest  entered  into  his  life.  New 
hopes  and  ambitions  arose  to  direct  and  control  him, 
and  his  work  moved  forward  with  an  ease  that  sur- 
prised himself.  Friends  seemed  to  spring  up,  as  un- 
expectedly as  they  were  unsought;  new  influences, 
unobtrusive,  yet,  with  quiet  surety  of  purpose,  far 
reaching,  were  advancing  his  work,  and  extending 
the  scope  of  his  power.  He  suddenly  became  aware 
that  his  desires  and  plan  of  action  were  the  same  as 
those  entertained  by  an  unknown  and  growing  fol- 
lowing :  that,  in  short,  his  progress  was  made  easy  by 
the  silent,  combined  effort  of  a  mysterious  force  that 
kept  in  view  his  advancement.  Difficulties,  unknown 
to  him,  stumbling  blocks  in  the  pathway  of  his  steady 
advance,  pitfalls  that  lured  the  unwary  to  political 
death,  were  anticipated  by  those  that  seemed  to  con- 
stitute themselves  his  personal  and  political  body- 
guard. 

He  found  himself  being  noticed  and  applauded 
by  men  high  in  position  and  power — men  whose  con- 
fidence, though  eagerly  sought,  was  cautiously  be- 


258         Cfcelpn  $an  CourtlanD, 

stowed.  With  this  came  endorsement  of  his  views 
and  methods,  manifested  by  a  friendly  handshake,  a 
word  of  encouragement  or  congratulation.  These  lit- 
tle incidents,  trifling  in  themselves,  innocent  to  all 
appearance  of  premeditated  intent,  might  appear,  to 
a  casual  observer,  of  no  special  import.  But  to  one 
entering  upon  a  national  political  career,  to  one  real- 
izing their  full  meaning,  they  were  golden  in  their 
immediate  effect. 

Malcolm,  who  was  by  instinct  and  education  thor- 
oughly American,  accepted  the  opportunities  pre- 
sented, turned  them  to  his  advantage,  and  fortified 
his  position  without  wasting  his  energies  in  futile 
conjecture.  He  had  political  and  social  success  to 
attain.  So  long  as  the  means  to  those  ends  were  con- 
sistent with  honor,  he  did  not  question  the  source  of 
his  new  and  growing  power. 

But  his  political  life  was  not  all  plain  sailing.  At 
every  turn  he  was  confronted  by  some  reminder  that 
he  had  once  been  accused  of  a  crime.  This  fact  was 
brought  home  in  many  ways,  and  by  means  that,  at 
times,  roused  his  fiery  young  blood.  His  political 
opponents  made  capital  out  of  his  trial.  They  ac- 
knowledged the  verdict  that  had  proclaimed  him  in- 
nocent; but  they  drew  attention  to  the  fact  that  the 
guilty  one  had  never  been  apprehended.  A  look,  a 
word,  a  covert  allusion,  constantly  reminded  the 
young  man  that  his  connection  with  the  Harlan  affair 


t^att  Courtlantu         259 

was  still  a  matter  of  interest  and  comment;  but  he 
went  about  his  duty  with  earnestness,  and  a  knowl- 
edge that  success  was  meeting  his  efforts. 

In  ths  early  evening  of  the  night  of  the  reception  to 
which  he  was  bidden  to  meet  Evelyn's  aunt,  he  had 
left  the  Capitol  and  was  walking  briskly  down  Penn- 
sylvania Avenue.  Having  attended  a  committee  meet- 
ing, he  was  now  free  for  the  balance  of  the  night.  A 
keen  January  air  was  sweeping  up  the  Avenue;  the 
night  was  clear,  and  the  lines  of  light  on  either  side 
converged  till  they  seemed  to  meet  in  the  distance.  His 
step  was  buoyant,  his  spirits  high,  for  things  were 
going  well  in  his  world.  He  was  mentally  berating 
himself  for  daring  to  dwell  on  his  meeting  with 
Evelyn.  He  considered  it  an  impertinence.  What 
right  had  he  to  think  of  her?  None  whatever,  he 
declared,  absolutely  none;  but  the  vista  of  lights, 
capped  by  the  blue  arch  above,  framed  his  mental 
picture,  and,  he  argued,  there  could  be  no  harm  in 
the  sweet  contemplation  of  it.  His  love  could  give 
no  offence  so  long  as  he  did  not  declare  it ;  and  revel- 
ing in  its  possession,  he  was  insanely  happy. 

"Young  man,"  said  a  voice  that  he  loved,  "you 
may  succeed  in  reading  your  political  future  in  the 
stars,  but  in  a  public  thoroughfare  have  some  regard 
for  the  rights  of  others,"  and  Major  Strong  was 
wringing  his  hand  violently  and  chuckling  at  Mal- 
colm's surprise.  "I  had  some  personal  business  to 


260 


transact,"  he  continued,  as  his  companion  seemed  to 
have  lost  his  power  of  speech,  "and  I  ran  over  to 
attend  to  it" 

All  of  which  was  without  a  shadow  of  truth,  for 
he  had  surrendered  to  a  desire  to  see  his  young  part- 
ner, and  had  come  to  Washington  solely  for  that  pur- 
pose. 

Together  they  walked  down  the  Avenue. 

"How  did  you  discover  where  I  was?"  Malcolm 
asked. 

"What  a  question  to  ask  a  lawyer.  I  inquired  at 
your  hotel." 

"Why  didn't  you  take  a  carriage  ?" 

"Look  here,  do  you  mean  to  impugn  my  youth? 
Old  age  and  I  are  not  on  intimate  terms.  Besides, 
I  knew  you  would  walk.  Have  you  been  inside  a 
carriage  since  you  came  to  Washington?" 

"Not  once,"  laughed  Malcolm. 

"I  thought  as  much.  I  have  been  more  fortunate. 
Mr.  Wavily  came  on  the  same  train  with  me  from 
New  York,  and  I  rode  with  him  from  the  station  to 
the  Willard.  He  is  on  his  way  to  Florida.  He  is  a 
friend  of  the  Van  Courtlands,  and  is  to  attend  one 
of  Mrs.  Chesborough's  'Evenings.'  She  is  Van 
Courtland's  sister,  you  know." 

"Yes,"  Malcolm  answered,  "I  have  been  invited." 

"I  was  not  aware  you  knew  Mrs.  Chesborough." 

"I  don't.    Miss  Van  Courtland  invited  me." 

"Whew!     This  is  getting  interesting,"  mused  the 


CourtlanD*         26i 

Major.  Then  aloud:  "So  you  have  been  launched 
socially." 

"The  people  here  are  very  kind  to  me.  You  know 
Miss  Van  Courtland ;  won't  you  go  with  me  ?" 

"Engaged  to-night,"  the  Major  replied.  "Shall 
we  dine  together  somewhere  ?  You'll  have  time, 
won't  you  ?" 

"Of  course,"  was  the  reply. 

Together  they  went  into  one  of  the  exclusive  cafes 
where  men  of  note,  of  national  fame,  fraternized. 
The  room  being  crowded,  seats  were  found  for  the 
two  men  near  the  door.  At  the  far  end  of  the  room, 
at  one  of  the  tables,  Wavily  was  in  earnest  conversa- 
tion with  the  senior  Senator  from  ISTew  York,  and 
neither  had  observed  the  entrance  of  Strong  and  his 
companion. 

"That's  Strong,"  said  a  voice  near  Wavily,  "just 
sitting  down  with  Malcolm,  the  'New  York  member 
of  the  House." 

"He  defended  Malcolm,  didn't  he?" 

"Yes,  they  are  law  partners  now." 

"Can't  see  how  the  Congressman  gets  on  with  that 
old  charge  against  him.  Have  you  met  him  ?" 

"I  don't  know  him  personally.  After  all,  such 
things  must  count  against  a  man's  chances  in  life." 

This  was  all  very  interesting  to  Wavily,  but  he  was 
not  pleased. 

"Senator,"  he  said,  loud  enough  for  the  first 
speaker  to  hear,  "Major  Strong  came  on  the  same 


262         Ctoelpn  l^an  CourtlanD* 

train  with  me  from  New  York.  He  is  seated  with 
Mr.  Malcolm  near  the  door.  I'd  very  much  like  to 
know  the  young  man.  Would  it  be  agreeable  if  I 
invite  them  to  our  table  ?" 

"It  would  give  me  great  pleasure,"  said  the  Sena- 
tor warmly. 

Great  men  do  things  in  a  manner  that  does  not 
appeal  to  the  average  mind.  The  ordinary  man 
would  have  sent  his  visiting  card  to  the  Major,  invit- 
ing him  and  his  companion  to  places  at  his  table. 
That  was  what  the  Senator  did  not  do.  Excusing 
himself  to  his  guest,  he  went  over  to  the  Major,  and 
insisted  that  he  and  Malcolm  become  his  guests  at 
dinner.  Strong  accepted  the  invitation  for  both, 
and,  with  the  Senator,  joined  Wavily.  Again  fate 
seemed  to  be  directing  Malcolm's  interests.  The 
Senator  was  the  most  noted  man  in  the  room.  He 
had  divined  Wavily's  intention,  and  Malcolm,  with- 
out knowing  why,  was  presently  receiving  from  him 
marked  attention. 

The  Major  swelled  with  pride  and,  over  their  coffee 
and  cigars,  confided  to  the  Senator  that  he  considered 
his  partner  one  of  the  best  lawyers  at  the  New  York 
bar. 

"We  are  watching  his  progress  here  with  interest," 
said  the  Senator.  Then  they  plunged  into  political 
confidences,  for  the  Major  was  of  the  party  that  the 
Senator  represented. 

Mr.  Wavily,  with  his  customary  smile,  was  assur- 


OEfcelpn  $an  CourtlanD.         253 

ing  Malcolm  that  the  pleasure  of  meeting  him  was 
second  only  to  the  honor  that  was  his. 

"And  I  have  kept  track  of  you  since  your  trial," 
he  was  saying.  "You  did  not  know  that  I  was  there, 
did  you  ?  Oh,  but  I  was.  Pooh !  You  were  sure  of 
an  acquittal  from  the  start.  The  Government  never 
made  a  greater  mistake.  Your  arrest  did  not  harm 
you,  young  man,  not  a  bit !  I  wish  you  would  come 
with  me  to-night,  to  meet  a  charming  old  friend  of 
mine,  Mrs.  Chesborough.  She  is  a  power,  and  I 
want  you  to  know  her.  She'd  be  delighted.  Can't 
you  come  along,  and  we'll  take  the  Major.  The  Sen- 
ator will  be  there,  so  will  everyone  of  any  note.  If 
you  say  no,  I  shall  be  disappointed." 

"I  intend  going,"  Malcolm  blushingly  answered. 
"Mrs.  Chesborough's  niece  was  kind  enough  to  invite 
me." 

"You  don't  say  so !  And  you  know  Evelyn.  She 
is  a  charming  girl,  and  beautiful !"  He  lowered  his 
voice  to  a  confidential  tone,  while  the  face  of  his  lis- 
tener took  on  a  bright  scarlet  hue.  "The  man  who 
wins  her — well,  he  must  be  of  uncommon  ability — " 
Malcolm's  face  clouded — "for  she  knows  men  as  few 
women  do.  I  like  young  people — because  I  am  young 
myself.  I'll  tell  you  the  secret  of  it — I  never  worry ! 
My  maxim  is — let  the  other  fellow  do  the  worrying. 
Then,  young  man,  the  other  fellow  will  grow  old, 
which  is  no  fault  of  yours,  and  you'll  grow  prosper- 
ous, which  is  a  duty  you  owe  yourself.  So,  you  see, 


264         Ctoelpn  ^an  CourtlanD. 

you  kill  two  birds  with  one  resolution.  Senator,"  he 
addressed  the  host,  "prevail  on  Strong  to  go  with  us 
to  Mrs.  Chesborough's." 

The  Major  expressed  his  regrets: — some  impor- 
tant matters  to  arrange,  an  appointment  to  keep,  etc. 

The  Major's  important  business  was  to  write  let- 
ters, and  his  one  appointment  could  have  waited  till 
the  following  day;  but  this  information  he  did  not 
consider  it  necessary  to  state.  Not  for  worlds  would  he 
place  Evelyn  in  the  embarrassing  position  of  meeting 
him  in  company  with  Malcolm.  Although  he  had 
not  accepted  money  from  her  for  defending  his  part- 
ner, still  a  fine  sense  of  delicacy  prompted  him  to  de- 
cline tho  invitation.  After  agreeing  to  meet  his  part- 
ner on  his  return,  the  Major  settled  himself  com- 
fortably in  the  smoking  room  to  enjoy  a  cigar. 

Accompanied  by  the  Senator  and  Wavily,  Mal- 
colm stood  before  Mrs.  Chesborough  and  smiled  with 
pleasure.  She  was  expressing  her  delight  at  meeting 
him.  Thanking  her,  he  withdrew,  and  others  in 
turn  paid  their  respects  to  the  charming  old  lady. 
Many  eyes  followed  the  young  Congressman,  who 
had  the  double  honor  of  being  endorsed  by  the  Sena- 
tor, and  the  oldest  and  closest  friend  of  the  hostess, 
Wavily,  who  now  chatted  and  laughed  with  her,  ap- 
parently oblivious  of  all  else.  The  Senator  spoke  a 
few  words  and  moved  away.  Evelyn,  near  at  hand, 
observed  Malcolm's  reception,  and  her  eyes  lighted 


OEtoelpn  $an  CourtlanD,         265 

with  pleasure.  No  one  knew  so  well  as  she  that  his 
sponsors  had  placed  him  at  once  in  the  good  graces 
of  her  aunt.  The  old  lady  revered  the  Senator  as  a 
man  of  talent;  but  Wavily's  endorsement  of  the 
young  man  placed  him  high  in  her  social  esteem. 
The  judgment  of  her  old  friend  she  accepted  without 
question.  Evelyn  had  noted  the  look  of  pleasure 
with  which  Malcolm  was  received.  She  approached 
Wavily  and  held  out  her  hand. 

"My  dear,"  he  said,  "you  don't  know  how  glad  I 
am  to  see  you  again.  And  you  have  grown  more 
lovely !  Dear  me !  I  haven't  seen  you  for  so  long  a 
time!  How  many  years  is  it?" 

"Three,"  she  answered.  "You  don't  look  a  day 
older  than  when  I  last  met  you." 

"Of  course  I  don't!  Neither  do  I  feel  a  day 
older.  I  won't  allow  myself.  You  know  my  rule, 
and  I  stick  to  it." 

It  was  with  genuine  pleasure  that  Evelyn  listened. 
They  made  the  circuit  of  the  rooms,  her  companion 
keeping  up  a  constant  chatter,  stopping  to  greet 
friends  and  exchange  a  word,  then  passing  on  to  the 
next, — picking  up  the  theme  of  their  conversation 
where  it  had  been  interrupted.  At  last  they  encoun- 
tered Malcolm. 

"Now,"  said  Wavily,  with  his  customary  abrupt- 
ness plunging  into  the  subject,  "I  want  to  know  what 
is  between  you  young  people.  Mr.  Malcolm  informed 


266         Oftjelpn  $an  CourtlanD, 


me  at  dinner,"  he  turned  to  Evelyn,  "that  you 
claimed  the  honor  of  presenting  him  to  your  aunt.  I 
must  know  about  this." 

Malcolm  flushed.  Evelyn,  more  composed,  smil- 
ingly assured  the  speaker  that  he  had  been  correctly 
informed.  Malcolm  did  not  dare  meet  her  glance. 
The  old  man  laughed  with  delight. 

"I  got  ahead  of  you,  my  dear.  Perhaps  I  also 
beat  our  young  friend  here.  If  I  did,  I  am  glad  of 
it  !  He's  a  lawyer  now,  and  I  still  maintain  my  old 
principle  —  anything  to  beat  the  lawyers.  There's 
the  German  Ambassador  and  his  charming  wife.  I 
must  speak  with  them.  You  young  people  are  alto- 
gether too  sedate  for  a  man  of  my  temperament." 
And  he  hurried  away  to  join  the  German  Ambassa- 
dor's wife,  who  was  a  very  beautiful  woman.  With 
all  his  eighty  years,  he  still  possessed  a  discerning 
eye. 

"You  are  fortunate,"  Evelyn  remarked  to  Mal- 
colm, "in  possessing  Mr.  Wavily's  friendship.  He 
stands  high  in  my  aunt's  esteem." 

"I  can  hardly  presume  to  claim  him  as  a  friend. 
I  imagine  it  was  from  a  desire  to  honor  Major 
Strong  that  he  invited  me." 

"Is  Major  Strong  in  town  ?"  she  asked. 

"Yes,"  answered  Malcolm.     "Do  you  know  him  ?" 

"I  met  him  some  years  ago." 

He  saw  her  face  cloud  and  he  divined  the  feelings 
that  the  mention  of  Strong's  name  awakened.  His 


CourtlanD,         207 

mind,  also,  went  back  to  the  time  of  his  trial.  How 
vividly  the  scenes  were  stamped  in  his  memory!  He 
could  recall  the  feeling  of  horror  that  Van  Court- 
land's  cry  had  awakened,  "It  is  I  who  am  guilty." 
The  words  even  now  rang  in  his  ears.  The  vision  rose 
of  the  look  of  terror  in  the  man's  eyes,  as  if  he  stood 
awaiting  sentence ;  the  features  distorted,  as  he  reeled 
and  fell  to  the  floor.  Mercifully,  Evelyn  had  been 
spared  the  sight,  mercifully,  too,  he  thought,  she  had 
been  saved  from  a  knowledge  of  the  truth  of  her 
father's  self-accusation.  As  he  now  looked  at  her, 
how  sad  the  expression  in  the  eyes,  as  if  she  were 
still  grieving  for  the  father  she  loved. 

"You  should  have  prevailed  on  Major  Strong  to 
accompany  you,"  she  said. 

Before  he  could  reply  they  were  joined  by  Evelyn's 
aunt. 

"I  have  been  trying  to  find  an  opportunity  to 
speak  to  you,"  she  said  to  Malcolm.  How  sweetly 
maternal  her  manner!  "Mr.  Wavily  had  so  much 
to  talk  about.  We  have  been  friends  for  many  years. 
Count  Orrindorf,"  the  Russian  was  bowing  pro- 
foundly, "permit  me  to  present  Mr.  Malcolm,  a  Mem- 
ber of  Congress." 

The  Russian  stiffly  acknowledged  the  young  man's 
salute.  For  the  past  ten  minutes  the  Count  had  been 
glaring  at  him.  Honoring  Malcolm  with  no  further 
attention,  the  Russian  turned  to  Evelyn.  Mrs.  Ches- 
borough  came  to  his  assistance. 


268         oStoelpn  l^an  CourtlanU. 

"Mr.  Malcolm,"  she  said,  "will  you  assist  me  in 
finding  Mr.  Wavily." 

With  the  grace  of  her  years  and  her  position,  she 
laid  her  hand  lightly  on  his  arm,  and  they  moved 
away.  Evelyn  flushed  as  she  recognized  her  aunt's 
purpose  to  surrender  the  field  to  the  Count.  Her 
glance  followed  Malcolm,  for  she  resented  the  Rus- 
sian's treatment  of  him. 

"Well,"  she  said,  addressing  the  Count  in  French, 
"are  you  enjoying  yourself?"  Her  instinct  of  hospi- 
tality made  her  tone  one  of  civility. 

"When  I  have  been  unable  to  get  a  word  with  you  ? 
And  the  American " 

"Follow  his  example,  my  dear  Count,  honor  him 
with  no  more  attention  than  he  has  bestowed  on  you, 
and,  believe  me,  it  will  bring  you  peace  of  mind. 
Besides,  you'll  have  revenge." 

Her  eyes  laughed.  The  more  heroic  he  became, 
the  more  she  held  him  up  to  ridicule.  He  became 
desperate. 

"Will  you  listen  to  me  ?" 

"Listen  to  you !  What  else  have  I  been  doing  for 
the  past  two  years  ?  For  variety  ask  me  not  to 
listen.  Mr.  Wavily,"  she  addressed  the  old  gentle- 
man who  had  approached,  "the  Count  wishes  to 
know  you."  With  a  smothered  imprecation  in  his 
native  tongue,  the  Russian  turned  away  abruptly. 

"My  dear  Evelyn,"  said  the  old  man,  "what  has 
that  fellow  been  saying  to  you?  I  believe  I  know 


^an  Courtlana.         259 

who  he  is.  Your  aunt  has  been  speaking  of  him. 
Now  that  I  have  seen  him,  I  think  I  shall  lecture 
her." 

Evelyn  saw  her  opportunity. 

"Do,  I  beg  of  you,"  she  replied.  "She  will  listen 
to  you." 

There  was  a  fatherly  tenderness  in  his  glance. 
He  was  one  whose  sympathy  she  could  lean  upon; 
and  he  in  turn  understood  her. 

"My  dear,"  he  said  gently,  "you  have  no  one  to 
advise  you  but  your  Aunt  Chesborough,  and  she  is 
biased.  You  won't  mind  if  I  speak  plainly  ?"  Her 
glance  reassuring  him,  he  continued:  "When  you 
consider  marriage,  remember  this — no  man  but  an 
American  understands  American  women.  No  man 
not  an  American  can  make  an  American  woman 
thoroughly  happy.  Happiness  is  everything.  My 
dear,  compare  this  Russian  with  any  of  our  young 
men — say  Mr.  Malcolm." 

The  old  man  watched  Evelyn's  deepening  color. 
He  laughed  gleefully. 

"It's  surprising  how  we  old  chaps  do  blunder  into 
things.  But  seriously,  he's  a  promising  young  man. 
I  have  kept  track  of  him  ever  since  that  unfortunate 
Harlan  affair.  I  have  been  giving  him  some  very 
good  advice — telling  him  not  to  worry.  Nor  do  you, 
my  dear,  and  I'll  promise  to  talk  the  name  of  that 
coarse  Russian  off  your  aunt's  visiting  list" 

Their   conversation   drifted  into   a  lighter  vein. 


270         OBtoelpn  Pan  CourtlanD. 

He  was  one  of  the  few  persons  who  had  power  to 
enlist  Evelyn's  attention.  She  confided  in  him  as  she 
would  in  one  of  her  own  age.  But  with  all  the  old 
man's  fund  of  good  humor,  there  was  an  under-cur- 
rent of  genuine  affection  that  permeated  his  thoughts 
and  language.  Those  who  interested  him  felt  its 
power ;  none  perhaps  more  so  than  Evelyn,  who  treas- 
ured his  words  as  those  of  one  dear  to  her. 

Malcolm,  impatient,  yet  fearing  to  intrude, 
watched  his  opportunity  to  again  speak  with  her. 
In  the  few  minutes  she  had  given  him  had  come 
added  courage — he  could  now  meet  her  with  less  fear 
and  new  hope.  The  Russian,  who  seemed  to  be  on 
such  intimate  terms !  Malcolm  could  not  understand 
it  He  was  a  judge  of  men;  to  him  faces  were  a 
true  index  of  character.  It  could  not  be  that  one  of 
Evelyn's  refinement  and  high  mental  attainments 
could  care  for  this  Russian.  His  every  feature 
breathed  coarseness  and  brutality.  But  what  right 
had  he  to  criticise,  to  censure  ?  He  smiled  at  his  own 
presumption.  Courage  and  self-esteem,  however, 
moved  him  to  action.  He  would  speak  to  her  again. 
Evelyn  was  laughing  at  one  of  her  companion's 
sallies. 

"There,  Mr.  Malcolm,"  said  Wavily,  "I  leave  you 
to  entertain  Miss  Van  Courtland.  She  has  been  good 
enough  to  listen  to  my  foolish  chatter  for  full  ten 
minutes.  Be  serious  now,  and  tell  her  you're  getting 
on  in  the  House.  Do  you  know,  Evelyn,  the  Senator 


$an  CouctlanD,         271 
• 

tells  me  this  young  man  is  doing  famously.  Get  him 
to  tell  you  all  about  it.  Then  you  can  tell  me,  my 
dear,"  and  away  he  went,  smiling  at  his  own  clever- 
ness. 

Again,  as  at  their  recent  meeting,  Evelyn  led  the 
young  man  to  talk  of  himself  and  of  his  work ;  gently, 
with  true  womanly  tact,  exploring  the  depths  of  his 
mind.  She  probed  into  the  heart  and  the  brain  of 
the  man  beside  her,  who  spoke,  not  from  interest  in 
himself,  nor  egotism,  but  from  a  sense  of  pure  joy. 
Her  tender  concern  unlocked  the  little  cells  of  the 
mind,  that  open  only  when  their  secret  spring  is 
touched  by  a  kindred  thought  or  sympathy.  Un- 
conscious of  her  purpose,  he  was  surprised  into  a 
confession  of  his  hopes  and  ambitions,  and  then,  like 
one  taken  unaware,  blushed  at  his  own  frankness. 
He  was  telling  her  what  he  had  never  yet  confided 
to  a  human  being,  thoughts  that  he  hardly  dare  en- 
tertain. And  she  listened  eagerly,  drinking  in  his 
words,  marveling  at  the  tones  of  his  voice,  that,  un- 
guarded, sounded  notes  of  passion  that  were  as  music 
to  her  ears.  His  voice  seemed  to  rouse  strange  long- 
ings, his  speech  to  awaken  within  her  a  responsive, 
sympathetic  harmony.  It  was  not  alone  the  im- 
pulses of  love  than  moved  her;  she  experienced  a 
mental  desire  to  be  lifted  out  of  herself  by  the  mas- 
tery of  his  mind — a  power  greater  and  stronger  than 
her  own.  She  seemed  to  feel  the  influence  of  his 
manly  vigor  and  intellect;  she  was  awed;  and  her 


272         OEtoelpn  l^an  Courtiano, 

mind  followed  his  with  the  sweet  obedience  of  one 
content  to  reach  no  higher,  of  one  whose  heart  is 
satisfied. 

In  the  main  office  of  the  hotel,  seated  near  the  en- 
trance, the  Major  and  Le  Moyne  sat  smoking.  The 
young  man  had  arrived  on  the  night  train,  and  had 
spent  the  past  hour  with  Strong,  discussing  legal  in- 
terests which  they  had  in  common.  Malcolm,  too, 
had  been  the  subject  of  comment  on  the  part  of  the 
former  District  Attorney.  Le  Moyne's  admiration 
for  the  man  whom  he  had  once  tried  to  convict  had 
not  been  lessened  by  his  own  political  defeat,  and 
his  acknowledgment  of  the  young  Congressman's  suc- 
cess was  as  outspoken  as  it  was  genuine.  The  face 
of  his  listener  beamed  with  pleasure.  If  his  partner 
were  his  own  son,  his  future  could  not  awaken 
greater  interest  than  Strong  felt  in  him;  and  Le 
Moyne's  hearty  tribute  was  deeply  grateful.  Yet  the 
subject  of  his  visit,  which  was  known  to  the  Major, 
was  in  the  interest  of  the  party  advocating  the  pas- 
sage of  the  bill  that  Malcolm  was  endeavoring  to  de- 
feat. But  however  much  their  politics  differed,  the 
young  men  entertained  a  personal  regard  for  each 
other  that  was  above  political  bickering  or  jealousy. 

The  trial  was  the  topic  to  which  neither  of  the 
lawyers  referred.  The  elder  man  respected  the  feel- 
ings of  his  former  adversary;  for  he  was  aware  that 
a  tie  of  affection  had  existed  between  him  and  Ev- 
elyn. He  also  knew  that,  since  Malcolm's  acquittal, 


273 

Le  Moyne  and  Evelyn  had  not  met;  and  he  could 
not  but  note  the  strange  coincidence  that  had  brought 
together  nearly  all  of  those  directly  concerned  ia  the 
trial  and  its  attendant  tragedy. 

A  carriage  stopped  at  the  main  entrance  of  the 
hotel,  and  Wavily  bustled  into  the  office.  As  he  ap- 
proached the  two  men  he  held  out  his  hand  to  Le 
Moyne. 

"Young  man,"  said  Wavily,  "had  you  come  on 
the  afternoon  train,  you  could  have  gone  with  me  to 
Mrs.  Chesborough's.  Never  have  I  seen  so  many 
beautiful  women.  When  did  you  arrive?" 

"About  an  hour  ago.  I  met  the  Major  here,  and 
we  have  been  spending  an  agreeable  time  together. 
You  are  on  your  way  South,  I  presume?" 

"Yes,  I  shall  be  off  to-morrow,  but  I  was  glad  to 
stop  over  here  to  see  my  old  friend.  By  the  way, 
Evelyn  \ran  Courtland  is  staying  with  her  aunt. 
You  will  see  her,  of  course?" 

Le  Moyne  flushed. 

"My  trip  is  strictly  a  business  one,"  he  said. 
"How  long  do  you  remain  ?"  he  asked  of  the  Major, 
to  turn  the  subject  of  conversation. 

"A  few  days  at  the  most,"  was  the  reply. 

"My  dear  Major/'  said  Wavily,  "your  young  part- 
ner, from  appearances,  seems  to  have  met  with  im- 
mediate social  success.  The  ladies  have  taken  him 
up.  It's  no  wonder,  for  he's  a  handsome  young  fel- 
low. I  left  him  making  love  to  Evelyn.  By  the 


CourtlanD* 

way,  Le  Moyne,"  he  added,  "at  one  time  I  thought 
you  were  interested  in  that  quarter." 

Again  Le  Moyne  colored,  and,  taking  advantage 
of  the  entrance  of  an  acquaintance,  excused  himself, 
leaving  the  old  man  and  the  Major  together. 

"A  promising  young  fellow,"  was  Wavily's  re- 
mark when  Le  Moyne  had  gone. 

"That  sentiment  I  can  heartily  endorse,"  was  the 
rejoinder. 

"For  a  time  after  the  Harlan  trial  he  seemed  to 
go  to  pieces.  Though  I  didn't  see  much  of  him,  I 
heard  it  talked." 

"Yes,"  was  the  reply,  "he  felt  severely  the  loss  of 
that  case,  yet  I  doubt  if  he  ever  believed  in  Mal- 
colm's guilt.  At  any  rate  they  are  warm  friends 
now,  though  they  differ  in  politics." 

"The  ending  of  the  trial  was  most  tragic.  Van 
Courtland  took  the  death  of  his  partner  very  much 
to  heart" 

Strong  did  not  reply,  and  the  conversation,  after 
a  pause,  drifted  to  lighter  topics.  Spying  another 
acquaintance,  the  elder  man  prepared  to  join  him. 

"Say  to  your  partner,"  he  said,  rising,  "that  I  wish 
to  see  him  before  I  start  for  the  South.  He's  a  fine 
young  man,"  he  added  in  a  confidential  tone,  "and 
he  seems  much  interested  in  Miss  Van  Courtland. 
Since  her  father's  death,  you  know,  I  have  nomi- 
nated myself  her  guardian.  Not  that  she  needs  one," 
he  laughed,  "she  is  thoroughly;  well  equipped  to  take 


OEfcelptt  ^an  CourtlanD*         275 

care  of  herself.  I  like  Malcolm.  There  is  something 
frank  and  fearless  about  him.  But  his  reticence  at 
the  trial  was  extraordinary.  I  suppose  you  know 
the  reason  for  it  Anyway,  he  is  getting  on  famously. 
Ah,  here  is  the  culprit  now." 

Malcolm,  who  approached,  received  a  gentle  pat 
on  the  shoulder,  while  two  pairs  of  eyes,  keen,  yet 
mildly  quizzical,  were  directed  to  his  face.  The 
sharp  night  air  had  flushed  his  cheeks,  for  he  had 
walked  briskly,  and  the  light  of  a  great  joy  ani- 
mated his  features.  At  that  moment  he  believed 
himself  the  luckiest  and  happiest  of  mortals.  It 
never  occurred  to  him  that  any  one  might  observe 
his  state  of  rapture  and  question  the  cause. 

"Well,"  he  said,  addressing  the  old  man,  whose 
hand  lingered  on  his  shoulder,  "you  arrived  before 
me." 

"Yes,"  answered  Wavily,  "we  young  chaps  must 
keep  good  hours." 

Malcolm  laughed. 

"You  seem  mightily  content  with  yourself/'  the 
Major  interjected,  "you  look  radiant.  Did  anyone 
leave  you  a  fortune  ?" 

"It's  the  fine  night,  Major,  beautiful  outside." 

"Fine  night  indeed!  I've  seen  young  men  in 
your  mental  state  before.  What  do  you  think  about 
it,  Mr.  Wavily?" 

"I  don't  blame  him,"  was  the  laughing  response. 
"If  I  were  his  age  and — well,  I'll  tell  no  tales.  I 


276         OEfcelpn  i^an  CourtlanD, 

was  once  young.  And,  for  that  matter,  not  too  old 
yet  to  appreciate  such  beauty  as  I  saw  to-night  In 
that,  apparently,  I  was  not  alone.  I  must  see  you 
in  the  morning,  young  man,  before  my  train  leaves. 
Now  tell  the  Major  all  about  the  fine  time  you  were 
having  when  I  left  you  at  Mrs.  Chesborough's."  And 
he  turned  away  to  join  the  senior  Senator  and  lec- 
ture him  on  the  fatal  result  of  worry. 

Never  since  the  Major  had  known  his  partner  had 
he  seemed  so  full  of  hope,  so  confident  of  the  future. 
The  elder  man  listened  and  smiled  with  satisfaction. 
The  world  had  taught  him  the  wisdom  of  silence; 
and  nature  had  endowed  him  with  the  rare  gift  of 
finding  enjoyment  in  the  happiness  of  those  he  loved. 
He  realized  that  merely  social  success,  or  satisfaction 
at  having  enjoyed  an  evening  of  pleasure,  was  not 
the  sole  cause  for  the  ring  of  confidence  in  Malcolm's 
voice,  for  the  new  light  in  his  eyes.  There  is  but 
one  power  that  can  move  men  of  Malcolm's  strength 
of  character  to  an  outward  display  of  emotion,  and 
that  power  must  enter  deep  into  the  heart  and  soul. 
With  them,  love  strikes  deeply,  and  they  surrender 
themselves  without  reservation.  Malcolm,  thought- 
less of  consequence,  believing  he  had  no  right  to  ex- 
pect that  his  passion  would  awaken  an  answering  re- 
sponse, surrendered  his  heart  and  his  life  to  his  love, 
and,  whatever  the  result  might  be,  the  thought 
brought  him  happiness.  For  years  he  had  had  but 
one  desire — to  tell  the  woman  he  had  just  left  that 


CouttlanD* 

he  loved  her,  to  tell  her  of  the  years,  even  before  the 
fatal  tragedy  had  thrown  them  together,  that  her 
image  was  before  him.  Yes,  that  had  been  his  hope ; 
and  now,  with  her  words  filling  him  with  a  lover's 
joy,  her  expressed  determination  to  hear  his  coming 
speech  in  the  House,  her  tender  sympathy,  he  gave 
himself  up  to  the  happiness  of  a  moment,  content 
with  life  and  with  the  world.  How  could  the  shafts 
of  his  opponents  harm  him  now  ?  He  scoffed  at  the 
thought.  The  world  might  conspire  against  him, 
but  his  love  was  impregnable;  and  the  thought  that 
she  was  watching  his  progress  would  spur  him  on  to 
such  efforts  that  success  must  come. 

The  Major  was  thinking  of  his  interview  with 
Malcolm  in  the  cell,  of  his  reticence,  his  dogged  de- 
termination to  risk  his  life  and  liberty  for  what,  at 
the  time,  the  attorney  had  termed  his  unreasoning 
obstinacy.  Could  the  daughter  of  Howard  Van 
Courtland,  he  queried,  have  been  the  cause  of  the 
sacrifice  that  the  young  man  had  made?  Had  love 
for  her  influenced  him?  If  his  surmises  were  cor- 
rect, what  might  be  the  result  when  Evelyn  became 
aware  that  Malcolm  loved  her  ? 

The  old  lawyer  was  not  pleased  with  his  new  dis- 
covery. Deep  affection  for  his  partner  had  made  him 
alert  to  the  danger  that  threatened.  He  saw  two 
young  people  of  a  highly  sensitive  disposition,  each 
unconscious  that  the  other  possessed  knowledge  that 
might  make  their  union  impossible,  awakening  to  the 


278         oftjclpn  $an  CourtlanD* 


first  ecstasy  of  love.  The  ruin  of  both  their  lives 
might  be  the  result.  He  knew  Malcolm's  ardent  na- 
ture, and  realized  that  an  attachment  once  formed, 
should  cause  arise  to  mar  it,  would  mean  the  ruin  of 
his  future.  Evelyn,  too,  had,  since  he  had  first  met 
her,  impressed  him  as  a  woman  of  strong  feelings 
and  principles.  He  was  satisfied  she  knew  who 
killed  Harlan,  that  she  was  aware,  also,  of  her  fath- 
er's determination  to  fix  the  guilt  on  Malcolm;  and 
now  the  one  who  had  suffered  by  her  father's  act  had 
come  into  her  life  as  a  suitor  for  her  hand.  She 
would  not  deceive  Malcolm;  neither  would  she,  the 
Major  argued,  consent  to  a  union  that  would  be 
cursed  by  the  fear  of  future  discovery.  But  he  was 
powerless  to  act  or  advise  ;  nor  was  the  man  who  now 
stood  before  him  one  whose  love  could  be  made  a 
topic  for  discussion. 

"When  do  you  deliver  your  speech?"  he  asked, 
wishing  to  get  away  from  the  reference  to  the  sub- 
ject of  his  thoughts. 

"The  day  after  to-morrow,"  Malcolm  answered 
with  interest.  "You  will  be  in  town;  but  I  should 
rather  you  wouldn't  hear  it.  You  will  expect  too 
much.  Besides,  I  discovered  long  ago  that  I'm  no 
orator." 

"My  dear  boy,"  was  the  suave  reply,  "if  you  have 
discovered  that  much  you  have  made  rapid  strides. 
Somehow,  if  a  man  has  an  idea  worth  listening  to, 
it  always  makes  itself  heard.  The  people  are  not 


279 

clamoring  for  orators ;  but  they  do  hunger  for  an  oc- 
casional gleam  of  wholesome  common  sense.  In  that 
respect  our  politicians  make  a  great  mistake.  They 
become  imbued  with  ijie  notion  that  the  public  wish 
to  hear  the  quality  of  their  voices.  They  appeal  to 
the  ear,  and  not  to  the  mind.  If  you  have  become 
conscious  that  you  are  not  a  really  gifted  orator — 
well,  when  the  time  comes  for  your  re-election,  you 
may  hope  to  be  returned  to  Washington.  By  the 
way,  Le  Moyne  is  here.  He  came  over  on  the  night 
train." 

"Keally!    Good  fellow,  Le  Moyne." 

"Well,"  growled  the  Major,  "he  gave  you  a  pretty 
close  call  once  upon  a  time." 

"So  he  did.  Perhaps  that's  why  I  like  him.  He 
did  no  more  than  I  would  under  like  circumstances." 

"Think  so  ?  I  always  considered  his  summing  up 
of  your  case  a  particularly  vicious  effort." 

"Not,  however,  inspired  by  his  desire  to  convict 
me.  He  had  other  matter  on  his  mind." 

The  Major  flashed  the  speaker  a  searching  glance. 
Malcolm  had  never  before  referred  to  the  subject 
with  equal  candor. 

"What  ground  have  you  for  your  belief?" 

"I'll  tell  you,"  was  the  laughing  response,  "if 
you  will  tell  me  the  source  of  the  information  that 
placed  the  Government's  case  in  your  hand — even 
before  the  trial." 

The  Major  did  not  immediately  reply.     Though 


280         OEtoelpn  t£an  CourtlanD* 

not  easily  disconcerted,  he  felt  the  eyes  of  his  com- 
panion were  on  him.  They  had  never  before  gone  so 
far  in  discussing  the  trial.  The  Major  realized  that  he 
must  retreat.  With  Evelyn  and  Le  Moyne  in  dan- 
ger of  a  daily  encounter  with  Malcolm,  the  Major 
had  no  further  desire  to  pursue  the  subject 

"That's  a  dead  issue,"  he  said  lightly,  "and  too 
ancient  to  resurrect.  Let's  go  to  bed." 

Malcolm  laughingly  acquiesced. 

"No  information  there,"  he  mused,  "and  he's  as 
touchy  as  the  devil  on  the  subject." 


CouttlanD,         28i 


CHAPTER  XIX. 

From  lobby  to  corridor  and  to  committee-room  the 
word  was  given  that  the  young  r  member  from  New 
York  had  the  floor,  and  was  offering  an  argument 
worthy  of  attention.  Members  of  the  House,  skep- 
tical and  fretful,  moved  listlessly  to  the  door  of  the 
chamber,  listened  a  moment  to  assure  themselves 
they  were  not  being  imposed  on  by  a  false  rumor, 
then  quietly  took  their  seats,  or  grouped  themselves 
in  the  rear  of  the  hall.  The  galleries  began  to  fill 
up,  Senators  and  others  dropped  in  to  listen;  and 
they,  too,  remained  to  applaud,  and  the  minutes  mul- 
tiplied into  hours. 

Malcolm  had  said  he  was  no  orator,  and,  as  the 
term  is  generally  understood,  this  was  true.  Though 
making  no  attempt  to  that  end,  his  terse  sentences 
and  clearly  expressed  thoughts  were  eloquent  with 
the  charm  of  earnestness  and  a  belief  in  his  subject. 
Words  came  freely,  and  in  infinite  variety,  colored 
by  a  happiness  of  phrase  that  made  a  homely  simile 
stand  forth  with  striking  effect.  He  was  speaking 
for  the  people  and  for  their  rights ;  for  their  liberties, 
as  against  the  encroachment  and  the  influence  of 


282         dftjelptt  $att  Courtlantu 


wealth'.  His  Heart  was  in  his  subject.  The  magic 
power  that  comes  from  adherence  to  a  principle  was 
his.  To  present  his  views  cost  him  little  or  no  effort, 
for  he  was  voicing  thoughts  that  had  become  convic- 
tions, expounding  theories  that  were  to  him  a  faith. 

Strong,  who  had  haunted  the  galleries  for  the  past 
two  days,  that  he  might  not  lose  the  opening  of  the 
speech,  sat  well  back,  but  where  he  could  command 
a  view  of  the  speaker.  He  watched  the  increasing 
number  that  came  to  listen  and  by  the  silence,  no 
less  than  by  the  applause,  he  rightly  measured  the 
effect  that  was  being  produced.  After  the  first  few 
sentences,  when  he  realized  Malcolm's  perfect  com- 
mand of  his  subject,  he  was  filled  with  gratification. 
Perhaps  no  happening  in  his  long  professional  career 
had  given  him  greater  pleasure  than  he  now  experi- 
enced. He  was  being  repaid  a  hundred  fold  for  his 
faith  in  him;  and  he  was  so  far  human  as  to  gloat 
with  satisfaction. 

A  hand  was  thrust  before  him  from  behind  and  a 
voice  said  : 

"Good,  isn't  it  ?    I  always  knew  'twas  in  him." 

The  Major  grasped  the  hand  of  the  speaker,  and 
Le  Moyne  sat  beside  him. 

"He's  doing  himself  justice.  That  satisfies  me," 
the  Major  answered. 

"I  always  considered  him  an  odd  sort  of  chap. 
'At  college  one  couldn't  get  within  a  hundred  miles 
of  him." 


CcurtlanD,         283 

Then  the  two  men  turned  an  attentive  ear  to  the 
speaker. 

Among  the  listeners  were  men  of  national  fame, 
who  agreed  that  a  new  voice  was  being  heard,  one 
that  would  command  the  attention  of  every  true 
American,  regardless  of  section  or  political  creed.  At 
a  bound,  this  young  man  had  forged  to  the  front,  not 
only  as  a  speaker  of  ability,  but  as  a  thinker  who 
could  command  respect. 

Was  it  his  subject  alone  that  moved  him  to  bursts 
of  unconscious  eloquence,  or  did  some  unknown 
power  tell  him  that,  in  the  ladies'  gallery,  two  eyes 
were  directed  at  his  flushed,  handsome  face;  that  a 
heart  beat  in  sympathy  with  the  rise  and  fall  of  his 
voice — a  voice  whose  deep  sonorous  tones  thrilled 
every  nerve  of  her  being.  Evelyn,  in  her  excitement, 
casting  aside  the  veil  she  wore,  listened  as  we  listen 
to  the  voice  we  love,  following  his  words  breathless 
and  silent.  She  had  no  thought  of  time  or  place; 
her  world  was  then  encompassed  by  the  walls  of  this 
hall  of  Legislature,  and  one  central  figure,  to  her 
god-like,  alone  filled  the  eye.  Even  as  she  listened, 
the  scenes  of  the  great  trial  rose  before  her.  Per- 
haps her  act,  her  treachery,  had  made  possible  his  ac- 
quittal ;  and  as  she  saw  him  now,  and  heard  the  voice 
which  seemed  to  grow  in  beauty,  a  sweet  sense  of 
contentment  swept  over  her.  The  life  of  this  man 
belonged  to  her,  it  was  hers ;  for  had  she  not  traded 
all  but  her  soul  that  she  might  save  him  ?  Yes,  and 


284         oBtoelpn  $an  Courtlanlu 


she  had  succeeded.  And  now,  how  beautiful  this 
life,  how  sublime!  The  effort  she  had  made  had 
cost  her  many  a  blush  of  shame,  it  had  cost  a  man 
his  love,  and  his  faith  in  womankind  ;  but  was  it  not 
worth  the  price  ?  Yes,  a  thousand  times  yes. 

For  a  moment  his  words  seemed  to  die  in  her  ears 
and  a  cloud  to  lower  before  her  vision,  shutting  out 
the  figure  on  the  floor,  while  a  voice  within  her  whis- 
pered —  "Love  is  not  for  you,  nor  for  one  of  your 
race;  remember  in  your  veins  flows  your  mother's 
blood."  A  chill  swept  over  her,  and,  dimly  conscious 
of  the  tones  to  which  she  listened,  she  sat  as  one 
transfixed.  Then,  with  an  effort,  her  faculties  as- 
sumed their  normal  functions;  the  speaker  again 
dominated  and  thrilled  her,  and  she  gave  herself  up 
to  the  delight  of  listening,  conscious  only  of  a  new  in- 
terest, a  new  hope,  having  entered  her  life.  Whence 
this  feeling  of  exultation  had  sprung,  whither  it 
might  lead,  she  did  not  question;  its  overwhelming 
influence  was  with  her,  controlling  her  thoughts,  her 
desires,  and  she  surrendered  to  its  power  unmindful 
of  consequences.  Why  should  she  not  love,  even 
though  reason  told  her  it  was  madness  ?  She  recog- 
nized the  incongruity,  the  impossibility  of  it  all.  Did 
Malcolm  know  the  truth,  she  reasoned,  he  would  loath 
her,  turn  from  her  as  the  daughter  of  the  man  whose 
act  had  clouded  his  life;  and  should  she  remain  si- 
lent, it  would  be  only  deferring  the  time  when,  with 
the  knowledge  of  the  truth,  he  would  confront  her, 


$an  CourtlanD*         235 

accusation  in  his  eyes,  and  the  voice  to  which  she 
now  listened  would  revile  her.  No,  her  father's 
crime  was  a  barrier  beween  them.  Even  should 
Malcolm  now  forgive  her,  the  thought  would  live, 
and,  ghost-like,  rise  without  warning  to  confront 
them.  But  she  consoled  herself  with  the  assurance 
that  he  would  never  learn  the  truth.  Her  lips  would 
be  forever  sealed,  and  he  would  never  know  that 
she  loved 

The  thought  startled  her.  Was  she  mad?  Why 
should  she  think  of  love  ?  Was  she  a  school-girl,  to 
surrender  to  the  sound  of  this  man's  voice  ?  Yet  she 
would  not  renounce  the  thought.  She  clung  to  it  as 
one  treasures  some  token  of  a  life  one  is  leaving — 
with  the  sweet  sense  that  it  was  one's  own  and  none 
so  powerful  as  to  dispute  its  possession.  There  was 
music  in  the  words  to  which  she  listened,  yet  how 
masterful  the  speaker  appeared;  how  gladly  would 
she  obey  his  command ;  and  her  imagination  pictured 
him  aroused  to  anger.  She  seemed  to  see  his  eyes 
flash — eyes  that  had  talked  love  to  her,  when,  at  her 
Aunt  Chesborough's,  she  had  eagerly  drunk  in  his 
words.  Unskilled  in  the  art,  he  had  betrayed  him- 
self; but  with  her  knowledge  of  men,  and  a  world 
in  which  she  was  old  in  experience,  she  had  read  his 
feelings  aright.  And  now  the  thought  again  filled 
her  with  ecstasy: — this  man  loved  her,  the  man  she 
had  saved,  whose  life  belonged  to  her. 

Again  she  listened.     The  speaker  was  about  to 


286         Oftjelpn  t^att  CoiirtlanD, 


close.  His  words  became  impassioned  —  a  note  of 
warning  in  his  voice.  Forceful  as  was  his  language, 
his  self-restraint  impressed  his  hearers.  "This  man," 
they  whispered  to  each  other,  "is  as  sure  of  himself 
as  of  his  subject." 

He  was  not,  as  he  had  told  the  Major,  capable  of 
flights  of  eloquence  that  would  appeal  to  the  imagina- 
tion; but  the  tribute  to  his  effort  was  greater  than 
had  been  paid  to  many  a  noted  speaker  before  him 
on  that  same  floor.  He  had  started  early  in  his  career 
to  defeat  the  bill  then  before  the  House  ;  when  he  fin- 
ished speaking  and  took  his  seat,  the  measure  was 
dead,  and,  so  far  as  that  session  of  Congress  was 
concerned,  beyond  hope  of  resurrection. 

The  excitement  was  intense,  and  prolonged  ap- 
plause followed  his  closing  words.  He  knew  he  had 
succeeded  and,  for  an  instant,  his  eyes  instinctively 
turned  towards  the  ladies'  gallery.  What  he  saw 
there  sent  the  blood  to  his  cheeks.  Evelyn  was  stand- 
ing, her  eyes  fixed  on  him,  her  attitude  that  of  sup- 
pressed excitement.  A  slight  movement  of  her  hand 
had  caught  his  attention.  Yes,  she  was  there,  and 
had  seen  him  ;  and,  with  a  smothered  exclamation  of 
joy,  he  turned  to  meet  the  congratulations  of  his  fel- 
low Congressmen. 

The  House  was  about  to  adjourn.  Strong  and  Le 
Moyne,  who  had  remained  together,  rose  to  go.  The 
Major  had  not  joined  in  the  applause,  but  a  moisten- 
ing of  the  eyes  was  his  tribute.  He,  too,  recognized 


Courtlattd,         28T 

Evelyn,  and  he  had  also  seen  the  look  flashed  between 
the  lovers.  Believing  that  the  young  Congressman's 
steps  would  lead  him  to  the  ladies'  gallery,  Strong 
decided  not  to  wait  for  him. 

"That's  what  I  call  a  rattling  good  speech,"  said 
Le  Moyne. 

The  two  men  were  standing  in  the  corridor,  in  the 
act  of  putting  on  their  gloves ;  the  crowd  was  pushing 
forward  to  the  stairway. 

"Yes,"  answered  the  Major,  "it  was  good." 

His  kindly  face  was  aglow  with  pleasure;  at  that 
moment  the  world  could  offer  him  nothing  to  increase 
his  happiness.  It  was  not  in  his  nature  to  betray  his 
inner  thoughts  or  feelings.  A  soft  light  in  his  eyes 
was  the  only  outward  show,  but  his  heart  was  thump- 
ing for  pure,  holy  joy. 

The  two  men  were  about  to  descend  the  stairs. 
They  were  intent  upon  the  subject  of  Malcolm's  suc- 
cess, and,  for  a  moment,  stood  at  the  head  of  the 
stairway  in  earnest  discussion.  Without  warning 
they  were  suddenly  confronted  by  the  young  Con- 
gressman and  Evelyn,  so  absorbed  in  each  other  that 
the  two  men  were  unnoticed  by  them  till  the  four 
met  at  the  stairway.  Malcolm  alone  retained  his 
self-possession.  For  the  others  it  was  a  moment  of 
confusion  and  conflicting  emotions.  To  Evelyn,  per- 
haps, more  than  to  the  others,  came  an  added  sense 
of  humiliation.  It  was  her  first  meeting  with  Le 
Moyne  since  her  father's  death,  and  fate  seemed  to 


288         OEfcelpn  $att  CourtlanO. 

have  arranged  this  encounter  as  a  punishment  for  the 
wrong  she  had  done  him.  From  extreme  pallor, 
when  she  first  recognized  Le  Moyne,  her  face  became 
scarlet.  Her  glance  fell,  and  she  stood  before  the 
man  she  had  wronged  the  personification  of  guilt. 
Would  he  openly  taunt  her,  and  before  those  who 
had  a  right  to  know,  yet  who,  in  all  the  world,  were 
the  two  persons  from  whom  she  most  desired  to  keep 
the  truth,  would  he  upbraid  her  and  proclaim  her 
guilt?  And  the  man  beside  her,  whom  she  loved — 
for  at  that  instant  fear  of  losing  him  swept  aside  the 
veil  of  self-deceit — would  he  also  turn  from  her,  ap- 
palled by  the  truth  ? 

The  Major  felt  keenly  for  Evelyn,  for  the  import 
of  the  situation  and  a  sense  of  her  embarrassment 
was  plainly  evident  to  him.  But  he  did  not  share 
Evelyn's  fear  of  disclosure.  He  knew  Le  Moyne, 
and  expected  him  to  act  upon  instinct;  and  that  in- 
stinct, he  knew,  would  prompt  him  to  do  what  would 
be  expected  of  a  man  of  his  sterling  worth. 

Le  Moyne,  raising  his  hat,  stepped  forward  and 
bowed  io  Evelyn.  The  Major,  however,  was  quick 
to  rescue  her  from  her  embarrassment,  and,  after  she 
had  returned  Le  Moyne's  salute,  she  found  her  hand 
in  that  of  Strong's.  He  was  telling  her  how  de- 
lighted he  was  to  see  her;  and  while  Le  Moyne  was 
congratulating  Malcolm  on  his  success,  the  Major 
was  leading  the  way  with  Evelyn  through  the  ram- 
bling corridors  of  the  Capitol  to  the  Pennsylvania 


CourtlanD,         289 

Avenue  entrance.  To  allow  her  time  to  regain  her 
composure,  he  spoke  of  Malcolm's  success,  and  of 
the  years  since  he  had  last  seen  her.  Smiling  sadly 
at  his  attempt  to  relieve  her  fears,  she  answered  him 
with  increasing  animation.  At  the  end  of  the  walk 
they  halted,  and  waited  for  the  others. 

"You  will  come  to  see  me  before  you  leave  town  ?" 
she  asked. 

There  was  wistful  entreaty  in  her  voice. 

"Yes,"  he  answered,  "I  promise  to  see  you  before 
I  return  to  New  York.  You  are  staying  with  your 
aunt  ?" 

"Yes;  come  any  time,  at  any  hour." 

Further  conversation  was  impossible.  The  two 
young  men  had  joined  them. 

"You  will  walk  with  me  to  the  hotel  ?"  Le  Moyne 
asked,  addressing  the  Major. 

"Yes,  if  you  don't  go  too  fast.  In  my  case  it's  no 
use  trying  to  disguise  my  age.  When  it  comes  to 
walking  I'm  not  nearly  so  young  as  our  friend 
Wavily." 

Lifting  their  hats,  the  two  men  started  up  the 
Avenue,  and  Evelyn  and  Malcolm  were  alone.  What 
could  she  say  to  hide  her  agitation?  If  she  were 
only  in  her  aunt's  home,  where  she  could  think ! 

"Will  you  ride?"  Malcolm  asked. 

"No,"  she  answered,  determined  on  conquering 
her  emotion,  "the  distance  is  short,  and  the  air  just 
cold  enough  to  make  walking  a  pleasure.  Come, 


290        OEtoelpn  $an  Courtlantu 

you'll  find  me  no  novice.  I  have  walked  the  dis- 
tance hundreds  of  times."  Then,  with  a  laugh:  "I 
believe  I  could  run  there  without  stopping ;  but  don't 
be  disturbed,  I  shan't  attempt  it." 

Conscious  of  success  fairly  won,  walking  beside 
the  woman  he  loved;  who  rejoiced  with  him,  Malcolm 
might  be  pardoned  for  giving  himself  up  to  a  com- 
plete sense  of  joy.  Together,  with  springing  gait, 
snuffing  the  air  with  keen  delight,  the  lovers  were 
living  moments  of  unalloyed  happiness.  Malcolm, 
nevertheless,  was  conscious  of  something  between 
them:  an  intangible  and  disquieting  sensation  that 
he  could  neither  understand  nor  explain.  He  could 
trace  the  birth  of  this  feeling — a  doubt  so  slight  as 
to  be  founded  on  presentiment  more  than  on  fact — 
to  the  meeting  between  Le  Moyne  and  Evelyn.  He 
felt,  more  than  saw,  evidence  of  strained  relations 
between  them.  Though  it  was  over  in  an  instant, 
their  conduct  during  the  time  following  their  mutual 
recognition,  until  Evelyn  had  turned  away  with  the 
Major,  had  left  its  impression  on  his  mind. 

They  went  on  through  the  dusk  of  evening,  that 
seemed  to  draw  them  into  a  closer  bond  of  companion- 
ship, the  darkness  veiling  the  light  of  love  in  their 
eyes,  their  voices  alone  betraying  an  excess  of  happi- 
ness. By  a  common  impulse  they  put  from  their 
minds  the  memory  of  the  chance  meeting,  and  thought 
only  of  each  other  and  the  joy  of  being  together. 
But  to  Evelyn  came  the  oft  recurring  thought: — 


OEtoelpn  $an  CotmlanD,         291 

What  will  be  the  end  ?  And  again : — You  are  sowing 
the  wind,  rearing  a  lover's  paradise,  only  to  have  it 
swept  away  by  a  breath,  a  doubt — knowledge,  that 
must,  in  time,  come  to  the  man  you  love.  And  then 
— desolation,  agony  of  soul,  and  a  heart  that  will  for- 
ever cry :  "I  love  with  a  love  that  will  not  die,  yet  I 
must  not  complain." 

But  the  man  beside  her  was  so  strong,  so  manly! 
And  his  voice  still  swayed  and  controlled  her.  Gen- 
tle though  it  was  now,  she  quailed  at  the  thought  of 
what  it  might  be  if  raised  in  anger.  Yet  why  should 
she  not  love  him  secretly,  paying  to  him  the  homage 
that  is  a  hero's  tribute — and  he  need  never  know. 

Unconsciously  they  had  increased  their  speed,  their 
feet  keeping  time  with  thought  and  fancy. 

"You  have  taken  me  at  my  word,"  Evelyn  said 
with  a  breathless  laugh,  "you  are  actually  running." 

Her  quick  glance  had  surprised  his  passionate  look. 

"What  a  brute  I  am !"  he  exclaimed  in  a  voice  of 
self-reproach,  "yet  I  have  an  excuse — I  was  tring  to 
keep  up  with  you." 

Laughing,  they  slackened  their  pace.  They  were 
nearing  Evelyn's  home. 

"You'll  come  in  for  a  few  moments?"  she  asked. 
"You  must  apologize  to  my  aunt  for  keeping  the 
dinner  waiting.  Seriously,  though,  Aunt  Chesbor- 
ough  would  be  delighted  if  you  would  give  her  an  ac- 
count of  your  speech.  You  know  she  considers  her- 
self a  sort  of  party  whip." 


292         OEtoelpn  $an  CotmlanD, 

"I  will  do  so  gladly,"  he  replied. 

Entering  the  house,  he  found  himself  confronted 
by  the  great  lady,  who  was  eager  to  listen,  plying 
him  meanwhile  with  questions,  and  interjecting  mild 
criticisms.  He  endeavored  to  dismiss  the  subject  of 
his  speech  in  a  few  words;  but  he  had  not  reckoned 
on  the  interest  of  the  questioner.  When  modesty 
compelled  reticence,  she  turned  to  Evelyn,  who,  as 
much  from  a  sense  of  personal  embarrassment,  as  a 
desire  to  spare  Malcolm,  grudgingly  gave  a  partial 
account  of  the  reception  accorded  him.  Why  did  her 
aunt  insist?  Why  could  she  not  wait  till  they  were 
alone  ?  But  the  champion  of  many  a  noted  speaker 
would  know  then  and  there,  till  Evelyn  blushed  and 
stammered,  and  Malcolm,  whose  face  was  a  deep 
scarlet,  laughed.  The  old  lady,  somewhat  appeased, 
said: 

"A  man's  first  public  speech  is  quite  a  serious 
matter,  and  you  young  people  take  it  in  altogether 
too  frivolous  a  spirit.  Mr.  Malcolm,  I  shall  con- 
sider it  a  special  honor  if  you  will  dine  with  me. 
To-night  we  dine  alone.  Pray  don't  say  you  are  en- 
gaged, for  I  wish  to  hear  more  of  your  first  effort  in 
the  House.  Evelyn,  dear,  speak  to  the  butler." 

Left  alone  with  his  hostess,  Malcolm  began  to 
fully  realize  the  unique  position  of  importance  and 
power  that  this  venerable  lady  filled.  As  though  he 
had  won  his  spurs,  and  was  therefore  worthy  of  con- 
fidence, she  spoke  with  such  freedom  and  authority 


OEfcelpn  $an  Couttlanti*         293 

that,  familiar  though  he  was  with  the  machinations 
and  inner  workings  of  political  life,  he  was  astonished 
at  the  deep  and  comprehensive  knowledge  possessed 
by  this  aged  society  leader. 

Evelyn's  return  was  the  signal  for  dinner.  The 
meal,  unduly  prolonged,  was  a  trial  to  Malcolm.  For 
thirty  or  more  years  the  service  had  been  essentially 
the  same.  Whether  dining  alone  or  surrounded  by 
her  friends,  the  custom  of  the  autocratic  old  lady 
never  varied ;  and  dinner  was  served  with  a  formality 
in  keeping  with  her  station  and  manner  of  life.  Her 
impromptu  invitation  to  dine  was  paying  her  guest 
the  highest  compliment  at  her  command.  It  was  an 
honor  rarely  bestowed,  reserved  for  those  who  ap- 
pealed to  her  affection.  Yet  conscious  though  he 
was  of  the  honor,  he  fretted  and  was  ill  at  ease.  His 
hostess  demanded  and  received  his  attention;  but 
his  eyes  and  his  thoughts  were  for  Evelyn.  The  sig- 
nal to  return  to  the  drawing  room  he  hailed  with  de- 
light. 

"You  are  fond  of  music,  Mr.  Malcolm  ?"  his  host- 
ess asked. 

"Yes,  though  my  knowledge  is  limited,"  he  an- 
swered. 

"Are  you  too  tired  to  play,  Evelyn  ?" 

"I  was  about  to  ask  you  the  same  question,  auntie 
dear." 

It  was  when  the  old  lady,  after  a  brief  prelude, 
began  Beethoven's  moonlight  Sonata,  that  her  re- 


294         OEttelpn  $an  CourtlanD, 

markable  vitality  was  strikingly  manifest.  Only  in 
the  movement  of  her  arms,  and  a  slight  swaying  of 
her  body,  did  she  betray  her  age.  Her  touch  was 
sure,  her  execution  flawless.  It  was  with  this  same 
delicacy  and  certainty  that  she  had  drawn  about  her 
men  that  Nature  had  made  great,  and  others  who 
by  her  tact  and  direction  had  placed  themselves  in 
the  front  rank  of  public  life.  The  power  of  her  art, 
as  of  her  life,  seemed  to  be  at  its  fullest  and  ripest, 

"There,"  she  said  as  she  finished,  "now  you  can 
say  that  you  have  listened  to  a  real  old  lady  play 
the  piano.  Also  one  whose  hearing  is  remarkably 
acute.  I  heard  you  young  people  whispering." 

Malcolm  colored  guiltily,  and  Evelyn  protested. 

"My  dear  Mr.  Malcolm,  I'll  forgive  you  most 
anything  to-night,  because  I'm  convinced  you  made 
a  good  speech  to-day.  To  win  my  favor  you  need 
make  but  one,  to  retain  it  you  must  make  many.  Ah, 
Senator,"  she  rose  to  receive  her  new  guest,  "I'm 
glad  you  have  proved  you  haven't  forgotten  me." 

The  Senator  protested  against  the  imputation.  An- 
other guest  of  equal  note  was  announced,  and  still 
others  came,  till  the  rooms  began  to  fill  up.  At  last 
Malcolm  found  his  opportunity  to  speak  to  Evelyn. 
How  long  the  time  had  seemed  to  Elm !  But  the  few 
moments  accorded  him  alone  were  like  a  forgotten 
joy  newly  discovered.  Their  formal  reserve  had  re- 
laxed, and  they  conversed  with  the  freedom  of  friends 
of  long  standing.  But  their  shirking  glances  were 


OEtielpn  Dan  CourtlanD,         295 

those  of  lovers,  hesitant,  fearing  discovery  one  of  the 
other.  Then  before  his  mind  again  rose  the  strange 
meeting  with  Le  Moyne. 

"You  knew  Mr.  Le  Moyne  in  New  York — inti- 
mately, I  believe.  Does  he  call  when  in  town?" 

The  color  suffused  her  neck,  then,  receding,  left  her 
pale  and  agitated. 

"No,"  she  answered  briefly. 

He  said  no  more  on  the  subject,  but  he  noted  the 
tremor  in  her  voice. 

Again  he  was  dragged  forth  to  be  introduced  to  the 
newcomers,  and  congratulated  on  his  recent  effort. 

"I  shall,  I  fear,  presently  begin  to  regret  having 
made  a  speech,"  he  remarked  to  Evelyn  as  he  re- 
joined her. 

"You  are  paying  the  price  of  fame,"  she  laugh- 
ingly replied. 

"Tell  me,"  he  said,  "do  you  visit,  or  embroider,  or 
do  whatever  occupies  a  lady's  attention,  during  all 
the  day,  as  well  as  evenings  ?" 

He  flushed  at  his  blundering  attempt  to  ascertain 
when  it  would  be  possible  to  see  her. 
"Not  diplomatic,"  she  thought ;  then,  with  a  smile — 

"Frequently  I  go  for  a  drive  with  my  aunt ;  some- 
times I  go  alone  for  a  walk." 

"As,  for  example,  when  and  where,  and,  if  to-mor- 
row, at  what  particular  time?  There  will  be  little 
to  do  in  the  House." 

"When  I  walk,  my  objective  point  is  the  new  li- 


296         OEtjelpn  pan  Courtlann* 


brary.  Usually  I  go  at  twelve  o'clock.  If,"  she  con- 
tinued, her  glance  falling  before  his  steady  gaze, 
"you  will  promise  not  to  refer  again  to  our  somewhat 
embarrassing  encounter  in  the  Capitol  to-day,  I  shall 
go  for  a  walk  to-morrow." 

"Agreed,"  he  answered.  "I,  also,  wait  —  to-mor- 
row. And  now,  what  shall  I  say  to  Major  Strong? 
I  have  kept  him  waiting  many  hours." 

"You  may  say  to  him  that  I  send  him  greetings, 
and  that  I,  alone,  am  to  blame.  Perhaps  he  may  for- 
give you  —  and  me,  also." 

Ten  minutes  later  a  young  man  might  be  seen 
walking  briskly  down  Pennsylvania  Avenue,  his  eyes 
aglow,  apparently  intent  on  studying  the  stars,  and 
otherwise  showing  indications  of  mild  insanity. 


$att  CouttlanD.         297 


CHAPTEK  XX. 

ELEVEN  o'clock,  the  following  day,  found  Malcolm 
pacing  nervously  to  and  fro,  within  the  shadow  of 
the  Capitol.  He  was  a  full  hour  in  advance  of  the 
time  set  for  his  meeting  with  Evelyn,  and,  to  relieve 
his  impatience,  he  looked  at  his  watch  every  five 
minutes,  and  congratulated  himself  upon  his  shrewd- 
ness in  being  the  first  to  arrive  at  the  rendezvous. 
In  love  matters,  as  in  affairs  of  State,  it  is  evidence 
of  sound  judgment  to  take  time  by  the  forelock,  and 
anticipate  great  events;  and  he  was  quite  sure  that, 
in  his  somewhat  eventful  career,  his  coming  meeting 
with  Evelyn  overshadowed  any  former  happening — 
even  to  being  tried  for  his  life.  Back  and  forth  he 
walked,  making  a  desperate  effort  to  appear  uncon- 
cerned, speaking  to  those  he  recognized  with  an  off- 
hand air,  as  if  he  had  just  finished  his  duties  in  the 
House,  and  was  taking  a  stroll  to  kill  time.  But 
with  the  approach  of  noon  came  all  sorts  of  fears  and 
forebodings.  What  if  Evelyn  should  not  come  ?  Per- 
haps he  had  not  arrived  in  time  to  meet  her  and,  dis- 
appointed, she  had  returned  home.  Impossible;  he 
had  been  an  hour  ahead  of  time — surely  no  lover 


298         <£tjelpn  ^an  CourtlanD. 

could  do  more.  Ah,  twelve  o'clock !  Smiling,  he  ar- 
ranged his  coat  for  the  hundredth  time,  and  strained 
his  eyes  in  an  endeavor  to  transform  a  colored  woman, 
nearly  a  mile  away,  into  a  figure  with  the  grace  and 
the  carriage  of  the  one  he  loved ;  then,  raging  at  his 
own  stupidity,  he  resumed  his  walk  and  the  arrange- 
ment of  his  coat  Not,  be  it  understood,  that  he  was 
vain;  but  it  gave  him  an  excuse  to  keep  his  hands 
occupied.  Twelve  o'clock  had  passed — three  minutes 
after  the  hour,  and  he  was  never  before  more  certain 
of  anything  than  he  was  now  certain  that  Evelyn 
would  not  come  at  all.  She  had  forgotten  about  the 
meeting  and  had  gone  to  drive.  Yes,  that  was  the 
reason  for  her  non-appearance.  Then  all  the  thunder 
clouds  that  ever  darkened  the  equitorial  heavens 
could  not  equal  the  blackness  that  obscured  his  world. 
And  very  black  thoughts  also  came.  Why  had  she 
exacted  a  promise  that  he  would  not  refer  to  their 
meeting  with  Le  Moyne?  What  had  Le  Moyne  in 
common  with  her?  Had  she  known  him  intimately 
in  New  York?  If  so,  there  had  been  an  estrange- 
ment. What  was  the  cause  ?  The  Major,  too !  He 
had  appeared  quite  unnatural.  To-day  he  had  not 
seen  Strong;  a  letter  in  the  early  morning  had  in- 
formed him  that  his  partner  would  be  out  of  town, 
with  the  further  information  that  the  writer  would 
meet  him  at  the  seven  o'clock  dinner.  Yes,  he  mused, 
he  would  demand  of  the  Major  what  he  knew  of  Le 
Moyne's  relations  with  Evelyn  in  New  York.  With 


Ctoelpn  $an  CourtlanB,         299 

Van  Courtland  the  former  District  Attorney  had 
been  on  intimate  terms  and,  no  doubt,  the  Major  was 
well  informed  of  Evelyn's  past  relations  with  him. 
Tour  minutes  past  the  hour — five,  six.  At  last ! 

"Have  you  been  waiting  long?"  Evelyn  asked. 

"A  few  minutes  only,"  he  answered. 

At  college  and  since  those  days,  Malcolm's  word 
had  never  been  questioned.  Perhaps  in  the  confusion 
of  meeting  Evelyn  he  believed  what  he  said. 

"You  are  quite  sure  I  did  not  keep  you  waiting  ?" 

"Quite,"  he  unblushingly  answered. 

They  walked  slowly,  each  waiting  for  the  other  to 
introduce  a  topic  of  conversation.  The  air  seemed 
to  palpitate  with  their  happiness.  The  thrill  of 
their  meeting  still  remained,  and,  surprised  at  their 
own  joy,  they  were  content  with  the  silence.  But 
there  were  moments  when  Evelyn  was  affected  with 
the  same  sense  of  guilt  as  when,  years  before,  she 
had  passively  listened  to  Le  Moyne.  In  what  man- 
ner did  the  cases  of  the  two  men  differ  ?  Only  in  the 
fact  that  one  she  wilfully  deceived,  and  did  not  love. 
The  other  she  loved,  and  it  was  this  knowledge  that 
made  her  pause,  appalled  at  the  wrong  she  was  doing 
him.  But  she  could  not  summon  sufficient  courage 
to  renounce  him,  to  say  that  forever  he  must  go  out 
of  her  life.  How  sweet  love  was  after  her  years  of 
sorrow,  even  punishment;  for  she  had  scourged  her 
soul  in  repentance  for  the  wrong  she  had  done  Le 
Moyne.  And  now,  while  the  first  throbs  of  love 


300         OEtoelpn  pan  CourtlanD, 

were  young,  like  the  undisclosed  beauty  of  the  flower 
while  yet  in  bud,  that  is  crushed  beyond  hope  of  life, 
she  must  surrender  the  love  that  had  come  into  her 
life,  so  new,  so  strong,  so  beautiful.  But  she  thought 
not  of  herself  alone.  The  suffering  was  for  her,  too, 
but  it  was  intensified  by  the  wrong  she  was  doing 
him,  and  she  could  not  explain  that  it  was  of  him 
only  that  she  thought: — that  she  had  chosen  her 
course  because  she  loved  him,  her  hero,  as  a  god 
among  men.  Would  she  have  the  courage,  when  the 
time  came,  and  he  should  tell  her  of  his  love  ?  She 
no  longer  tried  to  deceive  herself,  to  allow  maidenly 
reserve  to  blind  her  judgment.  She  knew  he  loved 
her,  she  read  it  in  his  glance.  The  touch  of  his  hand, 
trembling  as  it  met  hers,  sent  a  thousand  thrills  and 
messages  only  known  to  love.  How,  then,  could  she 
break  with  this  Heaven  that  had  only  now  come  to 
her  ?  What  was  life,  after  all,  but  that  one  touch  of 
love!  Compared  with  it  all  the  pleasures  of  the, 
world  were  as  nothing.  Why  should  she  give  him 
up — why,  why  ?  And  her  brain  whirled  at  the  mad- 
ness of  her  own  thoughts.  It  was  not  her  sin,  her 
crime,  that  stood  between  them.  Why  had  Heaven 
willed  that  she  should  suffer  for  a  fault  that  was  not 

hers?    If  her  mother 

She  looked  at  the  strong,  handsome  face,  the  warm 
blood  touching  either  cheek  with  the  glow  of  health, 
the  clear  eyes  dancing  with  expectancy  and  pleasure. 
Surely  he  was  a  man  who  found  enjoyment  only  in 


OEfcelpn  $an  CoitrtlanD,         301 

the  pure  things  of  life.  And  his  mind  would  revolt 
at  deception,  at  treachery;  and  should  he  discover  in 
woman  that  which  aroused  a  doubt  of  her  honor,  his 
love  would  end.  How  strongly  the  background  of 
light  brought  out  every  line,  clear  cut  and  firm,  every 
feature  the  perfection  of  manly  beauty.  And,  per- 
haps, he  also  would  turn  from  her,  with  the  same 
look  she  had  seen  in  Le  Moyne's  face  as  she  had 
passed  him  in  the  Capitol.  In  desperation  she  put 
the  thought  from  her. 

"You  have  never  told  me  of  your  college  life,"  she 
said,  "and  of  how  you  came  to  enter  politics." 

"There  was  little  romance  connected  with  my 
school  life,"  he  replied,  "just  hard  work,  with  a  con- 
tinual struggle  to  make  both  ends  meet.  More 
often,"  he  laughed,  "they  didn't  meet.  That  contin- 
gency, you  see,  required  a  new  set  of  promises  to 
creditors,  and  more  hard  work  to  make  them  good. 
But  the  effort  was  productive  of  one  result: — I  was 
forced  to  learn  some  law  while  acting  as  head  clerk 
for  an  attorney  who  wrote  law  books,  and,  like  my- 
self, grew  poor  on  it.  But  when  I  took  up  the  law 
as  a  profession,  the  experience  helped  me  amazingly. 
As  for  my  political  career,  Major  Strong  pushed  me 
almost  physically  into  it.  He's  to  blame,  not  I.  And 
once  launched,  I  found  new  friends  who  did  the  rest 
— and  here  I  am." 

"Your  friends  didn't  mate  your  speech  for  you." 

"Oh,   that's  really  but  an  echo  of  school   days. 


302         OEtoelpn  t£an  CourtlanD* 

Every  young  fellow  does  that  sort  of  thing.  If  the 
truth  were  told,  you  know,  we  like  to  hear  ourselves 
talk." 

"And  about  your  law  business.  You  are,  or  were, 
the  partner  of  Major  Strong." 

"Yes,  we  are  still  partners.  I  couldn't  get  on 
without  the  dear  old  Major.  But  we  quarrel  some- 
times." 

Evelyn  laughed. 

"I  can't  imagine  anyone  quarreling  with  Major 
Strong.  I  really  think  him  one  of  the  noblest  men 
I  ever  met." 

"We  thoroughly  agree  in  our  estimate  of  him.  I 
have  the  best  of  reasons  for  believing  in  him;  and 
you — you  have  known  him  long?" 

Evelyn  hesitated.  They  were  discussing  a  danger- 
ous subject 

"No,"  she  answered,  "but  his  daughter  was  my 
dearest  friend  at  college.  She  died  shortly  after  leav- 
ing school.  She  was  a  sweet  girl.  When  I  last  saw 
the  Major  in  New  York  he  spoke  of  her.  He  was 
deeply  moved.  Dear  me,  you  are  walking  again  as 
if  you  were  in  a  hurry  to  return.  Force  of  habit,  I 
presume.  Let  me  see,  you  were  a  famous  athlete 
in  college,  weren't  you  ?" 

Malcolm  laughed,  and  they  loitered  slowly  home- 
ward. 

"Why  should  you  think  I  was  ever  given  to  ath- 
letics?" he  asked. 


IPan  CourtlanD*         303 

"Didn't  you  tell  me  ?" 

".No  ;  surely  not." 

Confused,  she  made  an  attempt  to  change  the  sub- 
ject, and,  womanlike,  her  effort  made  her  design  all 
the  more  apparent  She  colored,  stammered,  and, 
when  he  laughingly  quizzed  her  as  to  her  informant, 
in  desperation  she  stumbled  on  the  unfortunate  re- 


"I  believe  it  was  the  Major  who  told  me." 

At  once  she  saw  her  error.  Whatever  the  Major 
had  learned  of  Malcolm's  early  career,  the  knowledge 
had  come  to  him  after  his  arrest. 

"Let  us  hurry,"  she  said.  "I  promised  my  aunt 
to  make  a  call  with  her  this  afternoon." 

They  quickened  their  gait  and,  after  half  an  hour's 
walk,  stood  before  the  mansion  that  had  been  the 
home  of  Evelyn's  aunt  for  many  years. 

"You  are  going  to  the  Vandervier's  reception?" 
she  asked. 

"I  have  not  received  an  invitation,"  he  replied. 

Simulated  surprise  was  in  Evelyn's  tone  and  voice 
as  she  replied: 

"Really?  And  aunt  particularly  wished  you  to 
play  the  part  of  escort."  Evelyn  did  not  add  that 
the  good  lady  had  seen  to  it  that  his  name  was  added 
to  the  invitation  list, 

After  a  smiling  adieu  she  entered  the  house,  and 
Malcolm  returned  to  his  hotel. 


304         OEtoelpn  i^an  Courtland. 

In  his  letter  box,  awaiting  him,  was  the  Vander- 
vier  invitation. 

Seven  o'clock  found  him  seated  with  the  Major  at 
dinner.  The  following  morning  Strong  was  to  re- 
turn to  Xew  York;  and  the  two  men  had  much  to  talk 
about,  business  to  arrange,  and  plans  for  the  future 
to  discuss.  Since  Malcolm's  speech  in  the  House, 
which  had  been  reported  in  every  newspaper  of  prom- 
inence in  the  country,  the  Major  could  with  difficulty 
repress  his  exultation.  He  had  heard  Malcolm's 
effort  discussed,  and  had  taken  pains  to  measure  pub- 
lic opinion.  That  opinion  placed  the  young  man  high 
as  an  orator,  and  as  a  statesman  worthy  of  the  notice 
and  admiration  not  only  of  his  party,  but  of  the  coun- 
try. The  young  man's  modesty,  the  Major  declared, 
was  commendable:  but  with  an  eye  to  his  partner's 
future,  he  naively  maintained  that  a  healthy  political 
growth  required  a  judicious  amount  of  good  Ameri- 
can thunder,  and  a  due  regard  to  the  development  of 
one's  self-esteem.  In  this  latter  respect  he  believed 
Malcolm  sadly  lacking.  Strong,  himself,  proposed 
to  furnish  the  thunder ;  and  it  was  his  present  fixed 
purpose  to  impress  his  partner  with  the  urgent  ne- 
cessity of  awakening  to  a  true  sense  of  his  own 
greatness — from  the  Major's  point  of  view. 

"Well,"  he  said,  during  the  dinner,  "when  do  you 
intend  running  on  to  New  York  ?" 

"Can't  say,"  his  companion  replied,  "probably  not 
till  after  adjournment." 


CourtlanU*         sos 

"Finding  Washington  more  interesting  than  you 
anticipated?  Strange  how  suddenly,  at  times,  we 
change  our  views.  You're  something  of  a  social  lion 
now.  I  can  scarcely  get  a  word  with  you.  What  re- 
ception next?" 

Malcolm  flushed.  The  Vandervier  invitation  was 
in  his  pocket.  He  handed  it  to  the  Major. 

"Em,"  was  Strong's  comment.  "I  suppose  you 
know  the  Vandervier  family  is  one  of  the  oldest  and 
most  exclusive  in  Washington  ?  Their  ancestors  for- 
merly owned  half  the  land  on  which  the  city  now 
stands.  It  seems  you're  getting  on.  You  must  have 
friends  in  court.  How  do  you  manage  it?"  he 
queried,  with  the  desire  to  rile  his  companion. 

"I  don't  manage  it,"  was  the  tart  rejoinder.  "If 
these  things  come  my  way 

"You'd  be  more  stupid  than  I  think  you,  should 
you  refuse  them." 

"That's  one  way  of  putting  it." 

"I  beg  your  pardon,  my  boy.     But " 

"You  couldn't  improve  on  your  remark,  Major; 
let  it  stand.  Tell  me  how  you  discovered  that  I  was 
interested  in  athletics  at  college." 

"Who  has  dared  to  say  that  I  ever  knew  ?" 

The  Major's  manner  was  mildly  scoffing,  and  his 
eyes  laughed. 

Quick  as  a  flash  came  the  reply  to  his  bantering 
question.  Malcolm's  tone  was  quiet  but  confident. 

"Miss  Van  Courtland,"  he  answered. 


306         OBtoelpn  $an  Courtland, 

Long  practice  in  the  art  of  dissembling  made  it 
possible  for  the  Major  to  control  his  astonishment, 
and  to  gather  together  his  mental  forces.  Used 
though  he  was  to  suqlden  attacks  in  the  practice  of 
his  profession,  to  meet  his  present  surprise  with  his 
customary  alertness  was  a  tribute  to  custom  more 
than  to  instinct.  But  his  mind  acted  from  force  of 
habit,  and,  answering  to  well  trained  principles,  re- 
fused to  be  thrown  out  of  running.  The  expression 
of  his  face  was  one  of  quiet  amusement. 

"She  did  ?"  he  queried.  "Well,  you  young  people 
have  been  quoting  me  with  frivolous  disregard  for  my 
age  and  growing  mental  decline." 

Holding  up  his  wine  glass,  he  continued  with  in- 
terest, "This  claret  tastes  a  bit  new  and  harsh.  Don't 
you  think  so?  The  label  is  French;  but  I  believe  I 
could  name  the  county  in  California  where  it  was 
made.  Shall  we  try  another  brand  ?" 

Malcolm  smiled  at  his  companion's  audacious 
coolness.  The  Major's  eyes  laughed;  and  he  turned 
to  the  waiter  with  a  request  for  a  bottle  of  dry  wine. 

"Let  me  see,"  he  resumed,  as  though  the  waiter 
were  to  blame  for  the  interruption,  "we  were  dis- 
cussing football  or  some  other  of  your  foolish  college 
games.  What  were  we  saying?  Excuse  my  absent- 
mindedness  ;  old  age,  you  know." 

Malcolm,  however,  was  acquainted  with  the  Ma- 
jor's tactics  when  under  fire.  His  companion's  in- 
difference, nevertheless,  only  confirmed  his  belief  that 


OEtoelpn  $an  CourtlanD*         SOT 

his  reference  to  Evelyn  disturbed  his  partner's  tran- 
quillity to  an  uncommon  degree.  Le  Moyne  was  the 
only  person  who  was  acquainted  with  his  former  life, 
and  he  alone  possessed  a  knowledge  of  his  college 
days  and  habits.  The  incident  of  saving  the  life  of 
the  waiter  in  the  hotel  was  known  to  the  District  At- 
torney. This  the  evidence  of  the  trial  proved.  The 
Major  had  become  possessed  of  facts  before  the  trial. 
Who  had  been  his  informant?  Malcolm  believed  it 
had  not  been  Le  Moyne;  and  Johnson,  the  Swede, 
had  disclaimed  any  knowledge  of  the  Major,  or  ac- 
quaintance with  him,  up  to  the  day  of  giving  his 
evidence.  Le  Moyne  had  been  friendly,  even  inti- 
mate, with  Van  Courtland.  Had  Evelyn  shared  that 
intimacy  ?  Some  one  had  furnished  the  Major  with 
the  Government's  case  before  the  trial  and  had  also 
told  him  the  name  of  the  Swede.  And  by  this  means 
the  Major  had  acquainted  himself  with  his  client's 
past  life.  These  conclusions  Malcolm  had  arrived 
at  during  the  trial.  Now  circumstances  again 
brought  the  question  prominently  before  him.  Who 
had  furnished  the  Major  with  the  information  that 
had  made  his  success  possible?  Could  Malcolm  an- 
swer that  question,  he  would,  he  believed,  know  who 
had  employed  Strong  to  defend  him.  But  the  artful 
attorney  was  warned  of  Malcolm's  Intent  to  probe 
the  subject  further.  At  the  mention  of  Evelyn's 
name  he  scented  danger.  Malcolm,  however,  was 
satisfied,  for  the  present,  to  relinquish  further  effort; 


308 

for  he  Had  a  high  opinion  of  his  partner's  powers, 
and  he  did  not  care  to  court  certain  defeat. 

While  Malcolm  was  mentally  following  his  process 
of  reasoning,  the  Major's  calculating  eye  was  on  him, 
and  he  could  have  told  to  the  second  when  the  con- 
clusions of  the  younger  man  were  reached.  But  here 
chance  intervened  in  favor  of  Malcolm.  Le  Moyne 
entered  the  cafe,  and,  seeing  the  two  men  sitting 
alone,  approached  and  offered  his  hand  to  Malcolm. 

"Congratulations,  old  man,"  he  said  heartily. 
"Rather  late  to  tender  them,  but  I  haven't  had  a  fit- 
ting opportunity  before." 

He  was  invited  to  a  seat.  Much  as  the  Major  ad- 
mired his  former  opponent,  at  that  moment  he  was 
not  at  all  pleased  to  see  him.  Still,  he  determined 
to  make  the  best  of  the  situation.  Owing  to  Mal- 
colm's state  of  mind,  and  his  interest  in  the  subject 
they  had  been  discussing,  the  Major  felt  as  comfort- 
able as  if  seated  over  a  powder  magazine. 

Malcolm  thanked  his  former  rival  with  genuine 
feeling.  The  praise  to  which  he  listened  was  graci- 
ously proffered  and  was,  perhaps,  as  welcome  as  any 
tribute  the  young  Congressman  had  received.  Le 
Moyne  had  dined,  but  joined  them  in  a  glass  of  wine. 

The  three  men  chatted  and  laughed,  and  good  fel- 
lowship ran  riot.  They  were  at  peace  with  the 
world,  for  the  world  was  treating  them  kindly.  The 
Major  informed  the  others  that  the  business  that 
had  brought  him  to  Washington  had  been  successful 


$an  Couttlantr*         309 

beyond  anticipation — he  had  come  solely  to  see  Mal- 
colm, bat  this  he  did  not  state.  Le  Moyne,  too,  had 
been  favored  with  success,  and  Malcolm  had  forgot- 
ten his  late  triumph  in  the  House,  because  his  heart 
was  overflowing  with  happiness  from  another  and 
sweeter  cause.  The  Major  had  a  batch  of  new  stories, 
and,  having  reached  the  end,  declared  that  dry  wine 
was  productive  of  thirst,  and  beckoned  to  the  waiter. 

"By  the  way,"  said  Malcolm,  addressing  Le 
Moyne,  "you  have  at  some  time  given  the  Major  the 
impression  that  I  was  a  sort  of  prize  athlete  at  col- 
lege?" 

"It's  coming,"  thought  the  Major. 

"Not  I,"  answered  Le  Moyne,  but  his  face  in- 
stantly clouded. 

A  spark  of  fire,  rightly  placed,  can  start  a  con- 
flagration that  no  human  power  can  stem;  a  word 
may  set  in  movement  thoughts  and  emotions  not 
easily  quelled.  Le  Moyne  was  human.  In  his  heart 
he  had  rejoiced  at  Malcolm's  acquittal ;  but  the  refer- 
ence to  the  trial  brought  before  him  humiliation  and 
suffering  that  the  years  had  not  wholly  dulled.  Mal- 
colm noticed  the  evidence  of  feeling,  but,  as  yet,  he 
could  not  connect  his  apparently  innocent  reference 
to  athletics  with  the  cause  of  Le  Moyne's  evident 
embarrassment.  To  the  Major  the  situation  appeared 
critical. 

"Have  done  with  your  school  days,"  he  said.  "I 
have  no  doubt  both  of  you  cribbed  at  examinations. 


310         OEtoelpn  tpatt  CourtlanD, 

For  myself,  I  know  I  should  never  have  pulled 
through  if  I  hadn't  cribbed.  You  return  on  the 
morning  train?"  he  addressed  Le  Moyne.  "Yes? 
Then  we'll  go  together.  What  do  you  say  to  a  game 
of  billiards?  I  haven't  played  for  so  long  a  time 
that  I  doubt  if  I  can  properly  hold  a  cue.  I  have 
eaten  and  drunk  altogether  too  freely  for  a  man  of 
my  age.  The  exercise  of  playing  will  do  us  both 
good.  Come  along,  Malcolm,  you  shall  keep  score." 

The  Major,  bent  on  preventing  a  return  to  their 
former  topic  of  conversation,  led  the  way  to  the  bil- 
liard room.  Here  he  played  as  never  before — atroci- 
ously poor  billiards;  and,  the  hour  being  late,  de- 
clared his  intention  of  retiring.  Agreeing  to  meet 
Le  Moyne  at  breakfast,  he  dragged  Malcolm  off  with 
him,  for  he  had  no  intention  of  giving  the  two  young 
men  an  opportunity  to  re-open  the  subject  of  their 
late  discussion. 

Malcolm  smiled,  for  the  Major's  purpose  was  all 
too  evident,  but  he  acquiesced  and,  bidding  his  part- 
ner a  cordial  "good-night,"  sought  his  room. 

To  sleep?  Far  from  it.  Smoking,  walking  the 
floor,  pausing  minutes  at  a  time  to  think,  or  to  men- 
tally argue  a  point,  he  fitted  together  the  bits  of  evi- 
'dence  on  which  to  build  a  theory,  and,  supplying  a 
link:  when  the  connection  was  interrupted,  he  con- 
structed a  plausible  framework  remarkable  for  its 
consistency  and  detail;  and,  when  he  had  finished, 
had  He  known  how  near  he  had  come  to  the  truth,  he 


$att  CourtlanD,         311 

would  Lave  marveled  at  his  own  ingenuity.  Mentally 
rehearsing  his  interview  with  Strong  when,  in  the 
cell,  his  attorney  had  shown  such  an  intimate  knowl- 
edge of  his  past  life,  he  again  connected  the  informa- 
tion with  facts  of  which  Le  Moyne  was  cognizant. 
And  now  his  former  belief  was  confirmed — what  was 
known  to  Le  Moyne  before  the  trial  had  found  its 
way  to  Strong  through  a  third  person,  and  that  per- 
son was 

"Impossible,  it  is  impossible,"  he  muttered  aloud, 
then  resumed  his  walk  and  his  conjectures.  Again 
and  again  the  thought  returned,  the  same  name  trem- 
bling on  his  lips. 

The  few  remaining  hours  of  the  night  he  tried  to 
sleep,  but  he  tossed  uneasily;  and  during  the 
snatches  of  slumber  he  went  through  the  agony  of 
suspense,  for  he  was  again  being  tried  for  his  life. 
In  his  dreams,  someone  was  whispering  to  him  to 
have  courage,  and.  in  the  corridors  of  the  prison,  a 
veiled  figure  seemed  to  be  always  waiting  in  some 
dark  recess,  or  he  would  meet  it  suddenly  as  he 
turned  in  his  walk.  He  could  not  see  its  face,  which 
was  covered  by  a  thick  veil,  and  in  despair  he  put 
out  his  hand  to  grasp  the  form;  but  he  clutched  at 
air — the  vision  had  vanished.  But  the  whispered 
words  hung  on  the  stillness: — "Courage,  courage." 
He  awoke,  feverish  and  unrefreshed.  It  was  morn- 
ing. 


312         OEtoelpn  pan  CourtlanD, 


CHAPTER  XXL 

EVELYN'S  mother,  resplendent  in  evening  dress, 
jeweled  ornaments  in  her  hair,  and  on  her  fair  neck  a 
narrow  band  of  pearls  from  which  a  diamond  pen- 
dant blazed,  was  the  most  observed,  because  the  most 
beautiful,  woman  in  the  Vandervier  drawing  room. 
Her  clinging  gown  of  crepe  de  chine  added  to  her 
grace  of  bearing,  and  a  fall  of  fine,  rare  lace  soft- 
ened the  marble  whiteness  of  her  arms  and  shoulders. 
The  color  of  her  cheeks  was  heightened  by  excite- 
ment; her  eyes  were  cold  and  disdainful: — her 
stately  bearing  made  offensive  by  a  touch  of  hauteur 
amounting  almost  to  indifference.  She  was  beauti- 
ful, with  the  beauty  of  a  marble  goddess;  and  her 
expression  was  as  cold  as  unfeeling.  Her  appear- 
ance did  not  indicate  the  condition  of  her  mind,  for 
she  was  ill  at  ease.  She  was  not  there  in  answer  to  a 
direct  invitation  from  the  hostess;  her  presence 
would,  in  fact,  lead  to  a  rupture  between  that  very 
aristocratic  lady  and  one  who  had  taken  the  respon- 
sibility of  inviting  Mrs.  Van  Courtland.  From  a 
social  point  of  view,  if  Evelyn's  mother  expected  to 
command  any  degree  of  recognition,  it  was  actually 


OEtoelptt  $an  CourtlanD,         313 

essential  that  she  be  received  by  the  lady  of  the 
house.  So  she  had  set  about  accomplishing  the  seem- 
ingly impossible  and,  if  one  did  not  scan  too  closely 
the  means  she  had  employed,  she  had  succeeded.  She 
was  there — that  was  the  main  thing.  Should  future 
complications  arise  because  of  the  presence  of  the  un- 
bidden guest,  that  was  a  question  which  concerned 
the  lady  of  the  house  and  the  head  of  one  of  the  old 
Southern  families.  But  in  bringing  Mrs.  Van  Court- 
land  to  the  Vandervier  home,  her  sponsor  had  pre- 
sumed too  far;  and  without  loss  of  time  it  was 
brought  to  her  notice  that  there  are  limits  even  to 
friendship. 

If  among  the  close  friends  of  the  hostess  Mrs.  Van 
Courtland  was  treated  with  chilling  tolerance,  the 
gentlemen  unanimously  pronounced  her  a  most 
charming  woman.  Smiling  graciously,  leaning  on 
the  arm  of  the  Secretary  of  a  foreign  legation,  she  di- 
rected her  energy  and  tact  toward  one  object — that 
her  own  interests  might  be  advanced.  Social  methods 
of  progress  are  much  the  same  as  military  tactics  of 
modern  warfare : — both  require  the  faculty  of  taking 
advantage  of  the  weakness  of  the  enemy,  and  im- 
proving opportunities  that  present  themselves. 

For  some  time  past,  Mrs.  Van  Courtland  had  been 
the  subject  of  ill-natured,  even  vicious  gossip. 
Whether  she  deserved  it  or  was  a  much  abused 
woman  is  not  for  us  to  decide.  Enough  that  people 
talked,  and  the  lady  found  many  doors  closed  to  her. 


3141         OBUelpn  t?an  Courtlantu 


Though  her  train  of  admirers  now  paid  homage  to 
her,  and  men  high  in  rank  begged  the  honor  of  a  pre- 
sentation, she  was  filled  with  disquieting  fears.  Ev- 
elyn and  her  aunt  were  expected,  and  her  mother 
listened,  chatted  amiably,  and  smiled  on  those  eager 
to  pay  court  to  the  loveliest  woman  in  the  house  ;  but 
she  received  their  homage,  however,  with  an  alert 
eye  on  the  door.  How  would  Mrs.  Chesborough  re- 
ceive her?  She  must  manage  to  get  a  word  with 
Evelyn,  before  she  ran  the  risk  of  an  encounter  with 
Van  Courtland's  sister.  Ah,  they  had  come! 

Mrs.  Chesborough,  accompanied  by  Malcolm  and 
Evelyn,  was  conversing  with  the  hostess.  All  eyes 
had  been  turned  to  the  venerable  lady  with  the  kindly 
eyes  and  white  hair,  who  moved  with  a  stateliness 
of  one  of  royal  blood. 

Those  who  looked  upon  the  mother  with  open  ad- 
miration, now  turned  to  the  daughter.  Never  had 
Evelyn  appeared  more  charming,  her  grace  and 
beauty  more  marked,  than  when  she  entered  the 
room.  Many  were  the  envious  glances  directed  to- 
ward Malcolm,  whose  air  of  unconsciousness  added 
distinction  to  his  manly  bearing. 

The  Count,  in  the  early  evening,  had  attached 
himself  to  Mrs.  Van  Courtland,  and,  pleased  by  the 
lady's  graciousness,  had  devoted  himself  to  her  en- 
tertainment. He  appeared  profoundly  impressed  by 
her  beauty,  and  endeavored  to  make  the  fact  plain 
to  her  mind.  Judging  from  the  pleasure  she  seemed 


$an  CourtlanD*         315 

to  evince  in  his  society,  he  had  met  with  some  de- 
gree of  success.  But  with  the  entrance  of  Evelyn 
had  come  a  change.  He  begged  of  his  companion  to 
excuse  him  till  he  paid  his  respects  to  her  charming 
daughter.  Filled  with  chagrin,  Mrs.  Van  Courtland 
was  compelled  to  listen  to  the  wife  of  one  of  the 
Southern  Senators,  while  she  watched  the  Count's 
heroic,  tut  futile  attempts  to  interest  Evelyn. 

Mrs.  Chesborough  was  making  the  rounds  of  the 
room,  leaning  on  Malcolm's  arm.  So  far  Mrs.  Van 
Courtland  was  safe,  but  she  determined  without  loss 
of  time  to  speak  to  Evelyn. 

"Allow  me  to  introduce  you  to  my  daughter,"  she 
said  to  the  Senator's  wife. 

Together  they  approached  Evelyn,  who  was  wear- 
ily listening  to  the  Count's  lament  because  of  not 
having  seen  her  for  many  days. 

Since  their  encounter  at  Mrs.  Chesborough's,  Ev- 
elyn and  her  mother  had  not  met,  nor  had  her  daugh- 
ter any  desire  to  see  her.  The  elder  woman  was  sat- 
isfied that,  however  much  Evelyn  might  wish  to  avoid 
a  meeting,  she  could  depend  on  her  not  to  create  a 
scene.  But  she  was  not  so  certain  of  her  reception  by 
Mrs.  Chesborough;  indeed,  should  accident  throw 
them  together,  she  was  prepared  to  meet  the  cold 
gaze  of  the  elder  woman  fixed  on  her  without  a  sign 
of  recognition.  Such  an  act  on  the  part  of  her  dead 
husband's  sister  would  make  her  position  unendur- 
able. She  determined  to  appeal  to  Evelyn.  Should 


316         (gfeelpn  $an  CouctlanD, 


her  daughter  refuse  to  listen  to  reason,  she  decided 
to  resort  to  other  methods.  She  approached  the  young 
girl  with  confidence. 

"My  dear  Evelyn,"  she  said  sweetly,  "I  have  been 
waiting  for  you  all  the  evening.  You  are  late.  Count, 
may  I  ask  you  to  leave  us  together  for  a  few  mo- 
ments ?'•' 

With  his  characteristic  bow,  the  Russian  retired. 

Not  till  Evelyn  heard  her  mother's  voice  was  she 
aware  of  her  presence.  The  color  left  the  young 
girl's  cheeks,  and  a  sudden  faintness  came  over  her. 
It  was  for  her  aunt  she  thought,  and  the  possibility 
of  her  return.  Remembering  the  last  interview  with 
her  mother,  realizing  her  desperate  mental  state,  her 
disregard  for  conventionalities,  utter  hopelessness 
seemed  to  take  possession  of  Evelyn's  faculties.  Her 
mother  would  stop  at  nothing  to  regain  her  former 
position  in  the  social  world,  and  this  could  be  accom- 
plished only  by  Evelyn's  aunt.  Acutely  conscious 
that  she  could  no  longer  maintain  her  equivocal  social 
status,  Mrs.  Van  Courtland  determined  to  make  one 
final  effort  to  save  herself. 

"Come  with  me  into  the  music  room,"  she  whis- 
pered to  Evelyn,  "I  must  see  you  alone." 

There  was  a  note  of  desperation  in  her  voice.  Ev- 
elyn quietly  accompanied  her,  and  they  passed  into 
the  adjoining  room  unnoticed.  Assuring  herself  they 
were  alone,  Evelyn's  mother  began  speaking  hur- 
riedly. 


CourtlanO,         317 

"Evelyn,  listen  to  me,"  she  said,  "this  is  not  a 
time  for  mincing  matters,  but  for  plain  language.  I 
will  come  to  the  point  at  once.  Your  aunt  must  rec- 
ognize me.  Do  you  hear — she  must.  I  no  longer 
ask  it  as  a  favor,  I  demand  it.  I  am  here  to-night 
simply  by  sufferance.  I  came  with  the  Carltons  be- 
cause they  saw  no  way  of  leaving  me  behind.  I  am 
visiting  them,  and  actually  had  to  force  myself  upon 
them.  Do  you  understand  ?  Force  is  the  only  word. 
All  Washington  knows  that  I  am  not  received  at  your 
aunt's  house.  I  shall  submit  to  this  state  of  affairs 
no  longer.  I  demand  instant  and  complete  recogni- 
tion. If  it  be  not  accorded  me,  I  shall  take  means  to 
bring  your  aunt  to  a  true  realization  of  my  power.. 
You  needn't  look  at  me  in  that  manner.  If  I  fall 
socially,  I  shall  drag  your  aunt  down  with  me. 
Neither  shall  I  longer  tolerate  your  role  of  injured 
innocence.  You  seem  entirely  capable  of  getting  on 
in  the  world.  Everyone  knows  the  Count  to  be  your 
latest  conquest;  no,  your  second  last.  Mr.  Malcolm 
is,  of  course,  the  latest." 

Evelyn  shrank  from  her.  Her  face  became  even 
paler;  then  the  blood  mounted  to  her  cheeks.  Not 
daring  to  trust  her  voice  to  reply,  with  increasing 
fear  she  listened  to  the  torrent  of  words.  Watching 
her  narrowly,  her  mother  gloated  over  the  effect  she 
had  produced;  for  terror  and  humiliation  were 
stamped  on  every  line  of  the  face  before  her.  Noting 


318         cuelpn  l^an  CourtlanD, 


the  vantage  she  had  gained  by  her  reference  to  Mal- 
colm, she  was  quick  to  press  the  subject 

"What  would  your  aunt's  world  say  if  they  were 
aware  of  the  truth?  You  and  I  know  it.  I  have 
been  on  the  defensive,  blamed  by  your  aunt,  and  con- 
demned by  her  friends.  Now,"  she  continued  with 
growing  anger,  "unless  she  takes  immediate  steps  to 
make  my  social  position  secure,  she  will  have  cause 
to  regret  it.  You  thoroughly  understand  me  ?  I 
shall  proclaim  to  the  world  that  the  murderer  of  Mar- 
shall Harlan  was  -  " 

"Don't,"  cried  Evelyn  in  suppressed  tones,  terror, 
entreaty,  in  her  voice,  "for  mercy's  sake  consider 


"Consider,"  her  mother  answered  with  a  laugh,  "I 
consider  only  my  own  humiliating  postion!  I  want 
your  answer — your  promise.  Refuse —  "  again  she 
laughed,  the  sound  more  cutting,  more  heartless  than 
her  words.  The  laugh  died  into  a  mirthless,  scoffing 
note  of  disdain.  "I  believe,"  she  concluded,  "the  re- 
cital of  what  I  know  might  even  interest  Mr.  Mal- 
colm." 

From  faintness,  Evelyn  sank  into  a  seat.  Some- 
how, since  her  mother's  first  words,  she  felt  it  was 
through  Malcolm  she  expected  to  enforce  her  de- 
mands. Notwithstanding  the  fact  that  she  had  pre- 
pared herself  for  her  mother's  course  of  action,  the 
words,  brutally  abrupt,  overwhelmed  her. 


$an  CourtlanU*         319 

"What  do  you  intend  to  do,"  her  mother  asked,  "or 
better,  what  will  you  compel  me  to  do  ?" 

"I  cannot  answer  you  now,"  Evelyn  faltered. 

"You  must  answer  me  now,  Your  aunt  will  deny 
you  nothing.  I  am  not  a  fool.  It  is  you  I  have  to 
deal  with,  not  her." 

In  moments  of  great  peril,  the  human  mind,  as  if 
by  instinct,  sees  the  climax,  the  result  and  the  end,  be- 
fore it  takes  note  of  present  or  of  immediate  condi- 
tions. At  a  flash  it  recognizes  the  difficulties  that  are 
insurmountable,  and  divines  the  end  by  instinct  more 
than  by  a  process  of  reasoning.  At  that  moment  Ev- 
elyn saw  the  end.  Hopes  to  which  she  had  clung 
faded,  conditions  and  influences  that  she  could  not 
overcome  told  her  her  love  was  doomed.  Between 
herself  and  Malcolm  all  was  over: — her  mother's 
words  crushed  any  lingering  doubt  as  to  the  course 
she  should  pursue.  The  truth  which  she  had  tried 
to  stifle,  delaying  by  her  own  weakness  the  moment 
when  the  fallacy  of  hope  should  be  laid  bare,  was 
now  brought  home  to  her  with  sickening  and  terrible 
clearness.  She  was  stunned  and  mentally  unable  to 
meet  her  mother's  demand. 

"I — I  must  have  time  to  consider,"  she  said  in  a 
trembling  voice.  "Within  a  week  I  shall  give  you 
an  answer." 

"Why  cannot  you  promise  me  at  once  ?" 

"It  is  impossible.  Say  no  more — now.  Hush! 
Someone  is  coming." 


320         dEtoelpn  $an  CourtlanD* 

Evelyn,  rising,  turned  to  enter  the  drawing  room, 
where  her  aunt  was  talking  with  their  hostess. 

"Remember,"  her  mother  whispered,  "I  shall  wait 
for  your  answer.  Should  I  not  hear  from  you  within 


"I  shall  remember,"  Evelyn  replied.  Entering 
the  drawing  room,  she  joined  her  aunt. 

"My  dear,  where  have  you  been?"  Mrs.  Chesbor- 
ough  asked.  "I  have  a  slight  headache  and  think  it 
best  to  return  home." 

"I  will  go  with  you,"  Evelyn  said. 

"Go  now  !  Certainly  not.  It  is  quite  proper  that 
I  shoulJ  leave  early.  Old  age,  my  dear,"  she  said  to 
her  hostess.  "But,"  she  turned  to  Evelyn,  "Mrs. 
Vandervier  will  not  excuse  you." 

"But  I  wish  to  go,  auntie  dear." 

"And  I  wish  you  to  remain.  And  you  shall,  my 
dear.  They  have  ordered  the  carriage  for  me.  Mr. 
Malcolm."  she  playfully  continued,  "you  are  to  re- 
turn this  young  lady  to  me  at  a  reasonable  hour. 
But—  '  sotto  voce.  "not  till  after  supper.  There, 
you  may,  if  you  will  be  so  good,  assist  me  to  the  car- 
riage." 

Accompanied  to  the  door  by  her  hostess,  the  old 
lady,  leaning  on  Malcolm's  arm,  descended  to  the 
street  where  the  carriage  was  waiting. 

When  Malcolm  rejoined  Evelyn,  he  cast  a  hasty, 
searching  glance  at  her  face,  which  was  still  pale. 


CoimlanD,         321 

He  saw  the  troubled  look,  for  love  had  made  acute 
his  sense  of  fear. 

"You  are  quite  well?"  he  said,  eagerly  scanning 
her  features. 

"Quite,"  she  answered  with  a  faint  smile,  "though 
I  should  have  preferred  returning  with  my  aunt. 
Mrs.  Vandervier,  however,  is  one  of  her  oldest 
friends.  For  that  reason,  if  for  no  other,  I  must  re- 
main." 

"What  has  disturbed  you  ?"  he  insisted. 

She  tried  to  laugh  away  his  fears ;  but  he  was  not 
convinced. 

They  sat  together  in  a  quiet  corner  of  one  of  the 
many  spacious  rooms,  undisturbed  and  unnoticed, 
for  Evelyn's  mother  had  again  laid  siege  to  the  Count. 
Flattered  by  her  notice,  and  captivated  by  her  man- 
ner, which  still  retained  its  youthful  vivacity,  he  was 
playing  the  role  of  admirer  according  to  the  approved 
custom  of  his  race. 

Evelyn  could  not  resist  the  influence  of  her  lover's 
presence,  his  voice;  his  tender  look  of  concern.  This 
might  be  their  last  evening  together,  and  she  put  from 
her  thoughts  and  fears  that  were  awakened  by  the  in- 
terview with  her  mother,  and  surrendered  herself  to 
the  joy  of  being  near  him,  thrilled  by  his  tender  man- 
ner, and  the  note  of  anxiety  in  his  voice.  For  this 
one  night,  passion  should  live  unrestrained;  she 
would  give  herself  up  to  the  delight  of  knowing  that 


322         tfBuelpn  $an  Courtlantu 

she  was  loved.  Why  should  she  anticipate  the  mo- 
ment when  she  must  give  him  up — when  the  present 
hour  of  exquisite  happiness  should  be  but  a  memory, 
made  bitter  by  the  thought  that  another's  lips  might 
receive  the  caress  that  fate  had  willed  could  never  be 
hers.  Why  had  she  loved  ?  Was  it  a  punishment  for 
the  past?  Then  bitter  and  rankling  thoughts  ob- 
truded, and  she  seemed  to  see  her  mother,  even  then 
so  near  her,  in  all  her  dazzling  beauty;  yet  in  her 
blood  that  fatal,  damning  taint  that,  since  time  be- 
gan, had  destroyed  the  mind  and  the  soul  of  man; 
until  lips  on  which  words  of  passion  once  burned 
could  only  utter  a  curse ;  and  eyes  which  had  talked 
the  language  of  love,  turned  with  loathing  on  those 
whose  glance  had  once  lighted  the  flame  of  passion. 

With  a  shudder,  Evelyn  listened.  Malcolm's 
words  were  of  a  time  that  she,  too,  could  not  banish 
from  her  mind.  Again  and  again  their  conversation 
drifted  back  to  the  years  that  had  been  fraught  with 
danger  to  him — years  that,  to  her,  had  been  filled 
with  an  agony  of  soul,  of  a  battle  against  the  belief 
that  the  future  held  for  her  the  punishment  of  the 
sin  of  inheritance.  As  the  moth  returns  to  the  flame, 
so  now  she  longed  to  hear  him  speak  of  his  emotions 
during  the  days  when  he  had  awaited  his  trial.  She 
was  conscious  there  was  danger  in  discussing  the  sub- 
ject; but  she  could  not  resist  her  impulse.  The 
theme  was  alluring;  it  awakened  a  sweet  conscious- 
ness that  she  had  sriven  much  to  save  the  life  of  him 


CourtlanD.         323 

whom  she  now  loved.  The  thought  was  dear,  and  the 
memory  of  the  words  to  which  she  listened  would  re- 
main with  her.  By  that  instinct  that  moves  and  com- 
pels kindred  impulses,  he  followed  her  line  of  thought 
with  a  feeling  of  joy,  and  he  longed  to  voice  emo- 
tions that  had  made  the  night  one  of  doubt  and  mad- 
ness. So,  in  guarded  language,  with  tender  concern, 
never  alluding  to  a  fact  or  incident  that  would  re- 
mind her  of  her  father's  connection  with  the  tragedy, 
he  spoke  of  the  days  of  doubt,  and  of  the  mental  tor- 
ture of  uncertainty.  Gradually,  and  with  the  care  of 
one  whose  speech  is  controlled  by  habit,  he  ap- 
proached the  time  of  his  first  meeting  with  the  Major. 
He  told  of  his  surprise  and  joy  when  he  found  that 
there  was  someone  who  thought  of  him,  one  whose 
heart,  even  while  he  paced  the  narrow  cell,  throbbed 
in  sympathy  with  his  own.  How  sweet  had  been  the 
knowledge  that  there  was  one  who  believed  him  inno- 
cent; and  with  an  earnestness,  simple  yet  eloquent, 
he  told  her  of  the  mental  portrait  that  had  lived  in 
his  heart  and  in  his  mind ;  for,  when  the  Major  had 
refused  to  disclose  the  identity  of  the  person  who  had 
retained  him,  he  had  conjured  an  image  that  made 
sweet  the  hours  of  his  confinement.  In  his  solitude 
he  had  pictured  one  who  was  beautiful,  gentle,  one 
whose  Leart  beat  with  commiseration  for  his  misfor- 
tune, yet  who,  from  the  highest  principles  of  woman- 
hood, refused  to  make  herself  known.  And  he  re- 
peated the  vow  he  had  made,  to  devote  his  life  to  the 


324         Cfcelpn  ^att  CourtlanD. 

task  of  discovering  her  identity,  till  he  could  say  to 
her: — "My  life  belongs  to  you — let  me  prove  my; 
gratitude." 

Tears  were  in  Evelyn's  eyes;  emotion  was  stifling 
her.  She  did  not  speak,  and  to  give  her  time  to  re- 
gain her  composure/  he  remained  silent,  his  eyes  on 
the  floor.  Evelyn,  controlling  her  voice,  faltered: 

"Suppose  the  woman,"  she  said,  "were  unworthy 
of  such  gratitude." 

"She  is  worthy,"  he  replied  with  conviction.  "Were 
she  not,  the  knowledge  would  destroy  every  ideal  I 
ever  conceived  of  beauty,  of  truth.  Were  she  not 
worthy,  my  heart  would  turn  to  gall — life  would  lose 
the  charm  that  now  makes  it  beautiful.  Worthy? 
Yes.  Nothing  could  shake  my  faith  in  her." 

There  was  a  triumphant  note  in  his  voice ;  but  the 
woman  beside  him  shuddered. 

"If,  in  her  effort  to  save  your  life,"  she  persisted, 
"she  had  lent  herself  to  a  trick,  a  deception,  even  if 
— "  her  tone  was  desperate,  she  was  forcing  her- 
self to  speak  the  words — "even  if,  to  prove  your  inno- 
cence, she  sacrificed  a  man's  love,  then — "  again  she 
faltered  — "then  would  you  forgive  her,  would  you 
think  her  still  worthy  of  your  regard  ?" 

She  was  fast  losing  her  composure.  He  was 
startled  by  the  intensity  of  her  tone.  By  an  involun- 
tary impulse,  her  hand  had  dropped  upon  her  lap. 
There  was  despair  in  the  movement.  His  hand  closed 


CourtlanD*         325 

gently  on  hers.  The  soft,  white  fingers  trembled  at 
the  touch.  Then,  as  his  grasp  tightened,  her  fingers 
lay  passive  in  his  with  an  exquisite  sense  of  security. 
He  did  not  reply,  but  his  heart,  through  his  throb- 
bing pulse,  was  speaking  to  her  with  passionate  elo- 
quence. 

"You  have  not  answered  me,"  she  faltered  when 
she  could  trust  her  voice. 

"  I  would  rather  give  the  life  she  saved  than  be- 
lieve it,"  he  said;  "but  why,"  he  laughed  softly, 
j"try  to  shatter  my  little  world  of  love?  Remember 
my  castle  was  built  after  my  own  approved  pattern. 
I  should  not  like  to  find  a  flaw  in  the  foundation. 
Shall  I  tell  you  how  it  appears?  Even  men,  you 
know,  build  dream  castles." 

"No,  no,"  she  caid  rising.  "It  is  late.  Surely 
my  aunt  would  agree  with  me,  that  it  is  time  to  go." 

During  the  short  ride  home,  Evelyn  was  strangely 
reticent,  and  Malcolm,  respecting  her  evident  desire 
for  quiet,  did  not  speak.  Yet  her  thoughts  were  of 
him,  and  of  their  parting,  which  the  events  of  the 
night  had  made  a  certainty.  No  longer  could  she 
entertain  doubt  as  to  the  course  she  should  pursue. 
She  owed  a  duty  to  herself  and  to  him.  She  would 
meet  it.  And  if  the  years  had  nothing  to  offer  but 
the  memory  of  her  love,  they  would,  at  least,  bring 
tranquillity  in  the  knowledge  that  she  still  retained 
the  respect  of  the  man  for  whom  she  had  made  the 
sacrifice. 


326         Ctoelpn  ipan  Couttlantu 


The  carriage  had  been  dismissed  and  she  was 
about  to  enter  the  house. 

"When  may  I  see  you  again  ?"  he  asked. 

"I  cannot  say,"  she  faltered. 

She  was  about  to  leave  him,  then,  with  a  sudden 
impulse,  held  out  her  hand. 

"Good-night  —  good-bye,"  she  said,  with  an  effort 
to  control  her  emotion.  "You  will  remember  me?" 
Without  waiting  for  a  reply,  she  hurriedly  entered 
the  house. 

He  stood  a  moment  silent,  too  surprised  to  move. 
He  controlled  his  desire  to  call  to  her  to  come  back 
and  explain  her  meaning;  but  the  impulse  was  but 
momentary.  Mechanically,  he  walked  slowly  in  the 
direction  of  his  hotel. 

What  had  been  her  meaning?  Many  times  he 
asked  himself  the  question,  but  he  could  frame  no 
answer.  To  what  had  she  alluded  when,  in  discuss- 
ing the  subject  of  his  trial,  she  had  spoken  of  trick- 
ery and  deceit?  "If  a  man's  love  had  been  sacri- 
ficed in  securing  his  acquittal!"  In  what  manner 
could  the  love  of  another  enter  into  their  lives?  It 
was  all  strange,  with  a  mystery  he  could  not  com- 
prehend ;  and  yet,  Le  Moyne  !  How  well  he  remem- 
bered the  bitterness  of  his  address  to  the  jury;  but 
the  words  had  not  been  directed  against  him,  the  ac- 
cused, or  offered  as  proof  of  his  guilt.  This  he  had 
felt  at  the  time;  and  in  later  intercourse  with  the 
District  Attorney  he  had  been  confirmed  in  his  be- 


OBtielpn  $an  CoimlanD,         327 

lief: — that  Le  Moyne's  argument  had  been  an  ar- 
raignment of  another  than  himself.  Who  was  that 
other?  He  had  asked  himself  the  question  before 
times  without  number.  Could  it  be  possible  ?  With 
an  exclamation  of  impatience  he  increased  his  speed, 
as  if  to  leave  the  subject  behind  him.  He  deter- 
mined to  see  Evelyn  the  following  day ;  he  could  not, 
he  would  not,  live  in  this  suspense.  He  would  go  to 
her  aunt,  who,  he  believed,  would  not  refuse  to  see 
him.  And  should  Evelyn  endeavor  to  avoid  him,  he 
would  insist  on  seeing  her,  and  tell  her  of  his  love, 
for  he  would  no  longer  play  the  part  of  a  coward. 
Surely  he  had  a  right  to  hope;  and  when  her  hand 
lay  in  his,  did  not  her  trembling  fingers  speak  of 
love  returned  ?  And  when  he  spoke  of  the  days  and 
the  months  of  suspense  that  had  been  mental  torture 
to  him,  did  he  not  read  in  her  eyes  sympathy  and 
love  ?  Yes,  and  to-morrow  he  would  put  an  end  to 
doubt,  and  know  what  life  held  for  him. 

With  a  light  step,  anticipating  the  joy  that  might 
be  in  store  for  him,  he  entered  the  hotel. 


328         OEfcelpn  Pan  Coiirtlantu 


CHAPTER  XXII. 

CARRYING  out  his  resolve  of  the  previous  night, 
late  in  the  afternoon  Malcolm  presented  himself  at 
the  Chesborough  house  and  asked  for  Evelyn.  She 
was  not  at  home.  The  two  succeeding  days  he  made 
the  same  journey,  with  like  results.  He  could  no 
longer  doubt  her  purpose :  she  no  longer  wished  to 
receive  him.  At  first  he  would  not  accept  this  view. 
Knowing  of  no  reason  why  she  should  summarily 
dismiss  him,  he  invented  a  hundred  excuses  that 
would  explain  her  conduct.  That  they  should  again 
meet  he  looked  upon  as  a  certainty,  for  he  would  ac- 
knowledge no  power  that  could  prevent  him  from 
again  seeing  her. 

By  the  end  of  the  third  day  he  had  wrought  him- 
self into  a  feverish  state  bordering  on  frenzy.  Though 
he  attended  to  his  duties  in  the  House  with  per- 
functory, though  dogged,  attention  to  detail,  he  re- 
jected all  social  advances,  and,  when  not  in  the  Cap- 
itol, gave  himself  up  to  brooding  and  futile  conjec- 
ture. This  did  not  tend  to  diminish  his  trouble,  nor 
did  it  satisfactorily  explain  the  cause  of  Evelyn's 
behavior;  and  the  more  he  thought  of  the  matter 


CourtlanD,         329 

the  more  he  blamed  himself,  and  mentally  desig- 
nated his  conduct  as  that  of  a  brute.  She  was  the 
fairest  and  the  dearest  of  all  womankind,  and  he 
taxed  his  brain  to  discover  what  act  of  his  had 
brought  about  this  present  unhappy  state,  but  his 
efforts  only  tended  to  discomfort  and  confusion. 
Finally,  however,  he  decided  that  the  recital  of  his 
trial  had  furnished  the  cause  for  her  displeasure  and, 
with  renewed  energy,  he  condemned  himself  in 
terms  not  lacking  in  power,  but  entirely  unfit  for  ut- 
terance or  publication.  Then  he  grew  irritable,  but 
realizing  that  his  associates  were  not  to  blame  for  his 
tangled  love  affairs,  he  spent  his  time  in  tramping 
through  the  outskirts  of  the  city,  alternately  accusing 
himself  of  being  everything  that  a  lover  should  not 
be,  and  vowing  he  would  win  her  in  spite  of  the 
world  that  had  conspired  against  him. 

With  this  saner  end  in  view,  he  addressed  a  letter 
to  Evelyn,  begging  that  she  grant  him  an  interview. 
The  letter  despatched,  he  devoted  his  energy  to  com- 
puting the  time  before  a  reply  could  reach  him.  One 
fact  was  apparent:  a  night  must  intervene,  and  he 
filled  the  time  with  speculations  as  to  whether  she 
would  reply  at  all,  or,  should  she  do  so,  would  she 
grant  his  request  for  an  interview. 

The  night  wore  away,  and,  sleep  being  impossible, 
hours  before  the  time  for  the  arrival  of  the  mail,  he 
haunted  the  offi.ce  of  the  hotel.  To  the  smiling  offi- 
cial in  charge,  who,  surprised  at  his  early  appear- 


330         OBtoelpn  l^an  CourtlanD, 

ance,  expressed  anxiety  for  the  state  of  his  health, 
Malcolm  replied  in  a  manner  that  discouraged  fur- 
ther exchange  of  civilities.  Then,  conscious  of  his 
own  discourtesy,  he  again,  for  the  hundredth  time, 
vowed  that  he  was  a  boor  for  allowing  the  state  of 
his  nerves  to  cause  him  to  lose  his  self-control;  and 
the  clerk,  after  handing  him  the  expected  letter,  and 
receiving  profuse  thanks  and  apologies,  was  ap- 
peased. 

Before  opening  his  letter,  Malcolm  went  to  his 
room,  for  the  letter  was  much  too  sacred  to  be  opened 
in  a  public  place. 

The  letter  was  brief,  its  tone  kindly  but  firm. 
She  must  decline  Lis  request,  and  refuse  to  see  him 
again.  It  would  be  useless,  she  wrote,  and  begged 
him  not  to  write  or  call,  for  it  would  only  cause 
them  unnecessary  pain. 

After  reading  the  letter,  he  stood  as  if  stunned, 
trying  to  grasp  the  import  of  the  few  words;  for, 
though  his  failure  to  see  her  had  filled  his  mind  with 
misgivings,  he  had  not  contemplated  the  sudden  and 
final  termination  of  their  friendship.  Unable  to 
understand  her  action,  he  sought  to  discover  in  the 
few,  simple  words  some  hidden  meaning  that  had  at 
first  escaped  him.  No,  the  letter  was  pointedly, 
cruelly  plain ;  each  word  precise ;  nothing  in  word  or 
phrase  or  line  to  which  hope  could  cling.  What  did 
it  all  mean  ?  There  was  some  ulterior  cause,  of  this 
he  was  satisfied;  he  was  equally  convinced  that  she 


Couctlano*         331 

was  not  moved  by  an  impulse  of  pique ;  and  he  knew 
she  would  not  dismiss  him  in  this  summary  manner 
without  first  having  considered  the  step  she  was  tak- 
ing. Malcolm  was  not  of  the  order  of  men  that  per- 
mit their  emotions  to  drive  them  to  extremes.  Though 
keenly  feeling  his  loss;  though  his  pride  was  hurt,  his 
love  cast  aside,  he  was  not  one  to  immediately  sur- 
render, without  at  least  learning  the  cause  that  had 
led  to  his  dismissal.  Besides,  he  loved  with  a  pas- 
sion that  would  not  be  quelled  by  a  pen  stroke,  or  a 
few  cold  words,  written,  perhaps,  with  the  intent  to 
disguise  the  real  feelings  of  the  writer.  He  would, 
he  must,  see  her,  and  hear  her  speak  the  words  she 
had  written.  Should  he  read  in  her  eyes  the  truth 
of  what  she  had  penned,  then  he  would  believe,  but 
not  till  then.  If  he  gave  her  up,  it  would  be  only 
when  he  knew  she  did  not  love  him. 

Pacing  the  floor,  he  went  over  the  conversation 
of  their  last  night  together;  even  the  tone  of  her 
voice  he  had  treasured  in  his  memory.  When  he 
had  spoken  of  the  trial,  he  now  remembered  how 
tender  her  glance  had  been,  and  with  what  compas- 
sionate interest  she  had  listened.  And  her  tears  had 
touched  him  so  deeply  that  it  had  been  only  by  effort 
he  had  been  able  to  continue.  Yes,  he  recalled 
it  all — every  word  and  look;  and  when  her  hand  lay 
in  his  own  had  he  not  felt  the  unspoken  evidence  of 
love?  Why  had  he  not  then  declared  his  passion? 
Why  had  his  courage  deserted  him?  And  now, 


332         (guelpn  i^an  CourtlanD* 


while  the  memory  was  still  fresh,  while  he  yet  felt 
the  fingers,  as  they  lay  in  his,  flutter  like  the  wings 
of  an  imprisoned  bird,  without  a  word  of  regret  or 
explanation  he  was  told  that  they  must  not  meet 
again,  that  all  was  at  an  end  between  them.  She 
could  not  know  of  her  father's  guilt;  his  self  -confes- 
sion at  the  trial  had  been  accepted  as  the  ravings  of 
a  madman.  With  the  exception  of  Strong,  to  whom 
he  had  never  admitted  the  facts,  he,  himself,  alone 
knew  the  truth.  There  was  no  possible  way,  he 
argued,  by  which  Evelyn  could  have  become  ac- 
quainted with  her  father's  connection  with  the  crime. 

He  reasoned  calmly,  but  with  one  purpose,  a  pur- 
pose clearly  defined  and  immutable:  —  he  would  not 
give  her  up.  He  loved  her  with  the  pure,  unalter- 
able passion  of  a  man  of  strong  nature,  as  men  love 
who  believe  and  who  do  not  lightly  cast  belief  aside. 
But  he  did  not  surrender  to  the  hasty  impulse. 
Calmly  he  thought  out  the  course  he  intended  to  pur- 
sue, mentally  arranging  his  plea,  carefully  choosing 
the  words  to  tell  her  of  his  love  ;  then,  with  pen  and 
paper  before  him,  he  began  the  letter. 

The  hours  went  by  and  he  wrote  page  after  page, 
pouring  out  his  heart  in  his  story  of  love,  laying 
bare  his  soul,  but  in  language  as  noble  in  its  sim- 
plicity as  was  the  sentiment  he  expressed.  He  wrote 
no  word  but  what  a  mother  or  a  sister  might  read 
without  a  blush;  every  thought  breathing  a  manly 
passion,  yet  as  tender  as  ever  lover  penned.  Eead- 


$an  CourtlanD,         333 

ing  the  pages  through,  he  sealed  the  letter  and,  call- 
ing a  messenger,  directed  that  it  be  delivered  to  the 
written  address.  This  done,  he  went  about  his  work 
with  his  customary  precision,  the  expression  of  his 
face  that  of  calm,  dignified  reserve ;  but  with  a  heart 
bursting  with  impatience. 

When  Evelyn  had  parted  with  Malcolm  the  night 
of  the  Vandervier  reception,  her  purpose  never  again 
to  meet  him  as  a  lover  was  fixed  in  her  mind.  When, 
with  her  "good-night,"  she  had  dismissed  him,  to 
her  it  was  a  final  leave-taking.  After  her  interview 
with  her  mother,  and  her  later  exchange  of  confi- 
dences with  her  lover,  had  come  her  decision  to  part 
with  him.  For  weeks  she  had  wrestled  with  doubt, 
her  mind  warring  with  contending  emotions.  In  a 
moment  of  weakness,  a  voice  within  her  cried  that 
she  could  not  and  would  not  surrender  her  love.  In 
this  thought  was  her  very  existence.  Her  senses,  her 
emotions,  concentrated  their  forces  in  one  trembling, 
burning  desire: — to  be  near  the  man  to  whom  she 
had  given  her  heart.  To  feel  the  touch  of  his  hand, 
to  meet  his  caress,  to  be  allowed  to  love  him  with  a 
blind,  unreasoning  faith — this  desire  became  uncon- 
trollable. Thoughts  would  take  possession  of  her, 
swaying,  torturing  her  with  a  thousand  pangs,  for 
behind  them  was  the  joy  of  the  past  few  weeks,  the 
joy  that  must  now  end.  Hope  had  resolved  into 
doubt,  doubt  into  fear.  Trembling  anticipation 
would  be  met  and  crushed  by  reason;  the  ecstasy^  of 


334         OEtielpn  t?an  CourtlanD* 

the  burning  thougLt  that  he  loved  her,  would  be  fol- 
lowed by  one  of  utter  hopelessness  and  despair.  Then 
there  followed  a  period  of  dejection,  hours  of  bitter 
resentment — her  faculties  at  war  with  fate.  Thoughts 
and  impulses  formed  from  which  she  turned,  shud- 
dering. She  was  filled  with  horrifying  doubt  of  her- 
self, of  her  power  of  will,  of  the  possibility  of  influ- 
ences dominating  her,  forcing  her  to  defy  the  world 
and  its  cant  and  convention.  If  the  germ  of  dis- 
honor were  in  her,  subdued  and  controlled  though  it 
be  by  the  admixture  of  her  father's  blood,  yet  it  was 
but  dominant,  waiting  to  be  called  to  life  by  the 
warmth  of  a  kindred  passion,  one  upon  which  it 
could  exist  It  was  a  fatal  stain,  that  waited  upon 
the  caprice  of  fate,  and  might  flame  into  life  and 
live  its  short  day;  but  however  brief  its  moment  of 
being,  it  would  exact  as  a  tribute  the  soul  of  her  in 
whose  blood  it  had  found  life. 

Bitter  to  Evelyn  as  were  the  weary  nights,  the 
days  were  still  more  nerve-racking.  Compelled  to 
meet  her  aunt's  anxious,  critical  gaze,  Evelyn's  in- 
genuity was  taxed  to  frame  excuses  and  subterfuges. 
Her  pallor  she  could  not  control,  and  her  assumed 
gaiety  did  not  wholly  appease  her  aunt's  fears.  The 
old  lady  watched  her  with  a  concern  prompted  by 
the  tenderest  affection,  but  tempered  by  the  keen, 
discerning  eye  of  the  woman  of  the  world,  one  whose 
judgment  had  been  trained  in  a  school  of  social  and 
human  tragedy.  Evelyn's  excuse  for  her  changed  ap- 


OEfcelgtt  $an  CourtlanD*         335 

pearancc  Mrs.  Chesborough  at  first  accepted  in  good 
faith;  but  her  niece's  continued  refusal  to  see  Mal- 
colm aroused  suspicion  and  conjecture  that  found 
voice. 

"Mr.  Malcolm,"  she  said,  in  her  customary  gentle 
tone,  "has  promised  me  to  drop  in  for  an  hour  at  my 
next  'Evening.'  I  have  arranged  to  have  Senator 
Walworth  meet  him.  The  Senator  can  be  of  great 
assistance  to  the  young  man." 

Evelyn  started.  The  color  mounted  to  her  cheeks. 
She  was  not  aware  that  a  searching  glance  had  ac- 
companied the  remarks  of  her  aunt.  In  her  agitation 
she  keenly  regretted  her  reply. 

"He  won't  come,"  she  said.  Then,  conscious  of 
her  indiscretion,  flashed  an  alarmed  look  at  her  com- 
panion. 

"No?"  queried  the  old  lady  in  assumed  surprise. 
"Really!  It  would  be  quite  uncivil  of  him  to  dis- 
appoint me.  I  believe  him  to  be  above  such  dis- 
courtesy. Anyway,  as  I  am  set  upon  having  Mr. 
Malcolm  meet  the  Senator,  I  shall  drop  a  line  to  the 
Congressman  to  remind  him  of  his  promise." 

Evelyn  flashed  a  startled  look  at  the  speaker,  but 
remained  silent.  Her  mind  leaped  to  a  desperate 
determination. 

"Is  the  Count  coming  ?"  she  asked  nonchalantly. 

"I  expect  him,"  was  the  answer.  "You  will  drive 
with  me  this  afternoon?  Your  color  is  not  quite 
what  I  should  like  it  to  be." 


336         OEtoelpn  l^an  Courtlantu 

"Yes,"  Evelyn  answered.  "I  think  I  will  rest  a 
little  before  lunch." 

Rising,  she  went  to  her  room,  taking  with  her  the 
book  she  had  been  making  a  pretence  of  reading. 

Here  the  struggle  was  resumed.  She  must  again 
meet  the  man  she  loved.  Even  her  aunt  had  con- 
spired against  her;  innocently,  to  be  sure,  but  forc- 
ing her  to  adopt  means  to  kill  his  love.  She  would 
take  steps  to  end  the  struggle : — such  as  those  of  her 
sex  employ  when  they  tire  of  a  love  that,  because  it 
is  so  completely  theirs,  palls  on  them.  Such  methods 
do  they  pursue  who  crush  love  under  their  heel,  be- 
cause their  own  passion  is  dead,  or  trade  their  love 
for  wealth  or  social  position  that  make  easier  their 
next  conquest.  To  this  class,  a  man's  love  is  of  no 
more  value  than  a  gown  of  the  past  season,  a  worth- 
less thing  to  be  thrown  aside  for  one  of  newer  mode. 

Evelyn  shuddered  as  she  thought  of  her  lover. 
Base  as  was  her  motive,  it  was  kinder  to  place  her- 
self before  him  in  a  light  before  which  his  soul  would 
sicken,  than  to  allow  him  to  hope,  and  to  keep  alive 
a  love  that  would  lead  not  only  to  the  wreck  of  his 
moral  self,  but  of  his  political  future.  Marriage 
with  him  ?  She  loved  him  too  well.  To  her  mind  it 
would  be  the  act  of  a  wanton.  Time  would  bring 
discovery,  and  then  the  horror  of  two  lives  joined : — 
one  the  victim,  shrinking  from  the  other's  touch,  his 
accusing  eyes  ever  proclaiming  his  unspoken  charge 
. — You  deceived  me  No,  a  thousand  deaths  before 


CourtlanD,         337 

that.  She  would  save  him  in  spite  of  himself.  She 
knew  his  spirit  of  chivalry;  she  was  aware,  should 
she  lay  bare  her  heart's  secret,  tell  him  what  she 
knew,  and  the  impulses  that  controlled  her,  she  would 
still  meet  his  declaration  of  love.  But  his  love  would 
have  to  stand  the  test  of  time,  of  cooler  judgment ;  to 
live,  it  must  be  free  from  the  doubt  that,  even  against 
his  will,  would  rise  before  him.  It  was  the  future 
she  feared,  not  the  present.  It  was  his  happiness 
she  considered;  for  herself,  she  was  but  working  out 
a  destiny  that  was  preordained. 

To  answer  his  letter  and  refrain  from  even  one 
word  or  expression  of  love  had  cost  her  a  struggle 
that  wrung  her  heart.  No  tear  drop  had  stained  the 
pages,  but  many  Lad  fallen.  Could  she  have  told 
him  of  her  love,  or  have  begged  him  to  forgive  her, 
it  would  have  eased  the  pain,  and  she  could  cherish 
the  memory,  for  then  he  would  know: — and  the 
knowledge  that  she,  too,  suffered,  would  move  him  to 
forgive  her.  But  she  had  crushed  the  desire,  and 
her  formal  words,  that  approached  indifference,  had 
struck  into  her  own  heart  with  the  same  feeling  of 
despair  that  had  moved  the  man  to  whom  they  were 
addressed. 

Late  in  the  afternoon  of  the  day  preceding  her 
aunt's  reception,  a  messenger  delivered  a  bulky  letter 
to  the  servant  who  answered  the  bell.  Evelyn  was  in 
her  room  when  the  letter  was  delivered  to  her.  She 
did  not  open  it,  for  she  knew  its  contents  as  well  as 


338         OEtoelpn  l^an  CotmlanD* 

if  uhe  had  read  it.  Fear  controlled  her,  dread  of 
reading  the  words  that  would  only  increase  her  agony 
of  mind;  for  his  plea  could  not  change  her  resolve. 
An  hour  went  by,  then  came  the  summons  to  lunch ; 
and  still  the  letter  remained  unopened.  She  believed 
that  if  his  words  of  love  or  of  reproach  were  not  be- 
fore her,  she  could  meet  her  aunt's  gaze  with  greater 
composure. 

Lunch  over,  the  two  women  entered  the  carriage, 
an  open  one,  for  iLe  day  was  fine,  and  the  sharp  air 
again  brought  the  color  to  Evelyn's  cheek. 

"That's  all  you  need,  my  dear,  to  tone  you  up," 
her  aunt  said  on  their  return.  "Nothing  like  fresh 
air  to  preserve  one's  health.  You  must  rest  now  till 
dinner  time.  Lie  down  now,  my  dear,  and  catch  a 
nap,  if  only  for  ten  minutes.  And  Evelyn,  love,  re- 
member the  motto  of  our  old  friend  Wavily — 'Don't 
worry,'  "  and  with  a  gentle,  motherly  caress,  she 
sent  her  to  her  room. 

When  Evelyn  was  alone  in  her  room,  she  went  to 
the  secretary  and,  unlocking  it,  took  the  letter  in  her 
hand,  examined  the  address,  admired  the  bold  char- 
acter of  the  penmanship,  and  fondled  the  packet  lov- 
ingly; then,  replacing  it,  she  locked  the  desk.  She 
would  not  read  it  till  night,  when  she  could  have  an 
opportunity  to  regain  her  composure  before  meeting 
her  aunt  in  the  morning.  Sleep!  Smiling  at  her 
aunt's  suggestion,  she  sat  down  to  think  and  plan  for 
the  future,  .Once  more  she  was  to  see  her  lover,  once 


Couttlantu         339 

only,  and  for  the  last  time.  Anticipating  the  coming 
ordeal,  she  trembled — it  had  power  to  fill  her  with 
fear  for  her  own  courage;  yet  joy  also  came  with  the 
thought  that  she  was  again  to  see  him.  Blushing  at 
her  own  weakness,  she  crushed  the  feeling  of  rap- 
ture. But  again  the  thought  returned.  She  would 
again  see  his  handsome  face,  hear  his  voice,  and  ex- 
pectancy thrilled  her.  How  noble  he  had  appeared, 
standing  on  the  floor  of  the  House,  among  the  rep- 
resentatives of  the  country,  commanding  their  atten- 
tion by  his  eloquence.  How  she  loved  him !  and  she 
must  give  him  up.  Why  should  she  ?  Why  surren- 
der her  love — the  one  love  of  her  life  ? 

Maddened  by  the  thought,  she  rose  and  rapidly 
paced  the  room.  The  struggle  was  going  on  in  her 
heart  and  brain — .1  battle  that  had  been  fought  out 
so  many,  many  times  in  the  history  of  the  world. 
Emotions  had  clashed ;  thoughts  that  rose,  clothed  in 
the  flaming  colors  of  passion,  only  to  be  met  and 
routed  by  cooler  judgment,  and  the  remembrance  of 
principles  that  the  social  world  had  adopted  as  its 
code.  She  had  before  come  to  a  decision ;  but  her  re- 
solve clashed  with  her  desire — her  will  rebelled. 
She  believed  she  had  solved  the  question,  but  ele- 
ments -.vithin  her  were  still  warring,  elements  of 
doubt,  and  fears  for  her  own  power  of  will. 

The  time  allowed  by  her  mother,  when  she  must 
answer  her  demands,  was  drawing  to  a  close.  She 
must  act  and  act  quickly.  Of  herself  she  did  not 


340         <£toelprt  $an  Courtlantu 


think,  but  her  aunt  must  be  told.  It  was  for  her  to 
decide  whether  she  would  receive  her  mother  or 
learn  with  the  world  the  truth  of  the  Harlan  affair. 
For  the  sake  of  her  aunt,  Evelyn  would  have  met 
her  mother's  demands,  but  she  knew  her  aunt'a 
standard  of  self-respect  —  the  old  lady  would  face  ex- 
posure £,ooner  than  receive  in  her  home  the  woman 
who  had  ruined  her  brother's  life. 

Dressing  hastily,  Evelyn  descended  to  the  draw- 
ing room. 


Courtlantu         341 


CHAPTER  XXIII. 

IT  was  near  midnight  and  Evelyn  sat  in  her  room, 
Malcolm's  letter  in  her  hand,  her  expression  unnat- 
ural in  its  calm.  Twice  she  had  read  the  long  letter 
through  to  the  end,  though  at  the  first  reading  she 
knew  that  every  word  would  live  forever  in  her 
memory.  A  strong  man  had  declared  his  love  in 
words  that  sank  deep  into  her  heart.  With  him 
there  had  been  no  striving  for  lover's  language;  it 
was  the  heart  speaking — a  heart  overflowing  with 
the  deepest  and  tenderest  passion,  finding  vent  in  a 
torrent  of  words  simple  and  sincere,  telling  his  story 
of  love  without  reservation  or  restraint.  What  she 
read  appealed  to  her  with  even  greater  force  than  if 
she  had  listened  to  his  voice,  for  he  wrote  with  the 
candor  of  a  child.  For  the  first  time  she  learned 
that  his  was  a  devotion  of  years.  His  love  began 
when,  as  a  clerk  in  her  father's  employ,  he  had 
watched  for  her  periodical  visits  to  the  banking 
house.  It  was  then,  years  before  their  formal  meet- 
ing, that  he  had  first  loved  her.  How  happy  he  had 
been,  content  with  a  glimpse  of  her  face  as  she  went 
to  and  from  the  office.  And  when  the  tragedy  came 


342         OEtoelpn  |?an  CourtlanD, 

that  had  cost  Harlan  his  life,  and  he,  himself,  had 
been  accused,  it  was  only  for  her  that  he  thought: — 
his  only  fear  that  she  might  believe  in  his  guilt. 

Then,  with  Strong's  appearance,  came  the  first  ray 
of  light,  and  the  thought  that,  with  his  acquittal,  she 
would  remember  him  as  one  who  had  been  accused, 
but  who  had  cleared  himself  of  the  charge — that 
gave  him  courage.  With  it  came  new  hope  that,  per- 
haps, some  time  they  would  meet.  When  he  knew 
there  was  someone  who  believed  in  his  innocence, 
though  he  had  no  right,  even  in  imagination,  to 
clothe  his  image  with  her  features  and  form  and 
beauty,  yet  it  was  her  own  face  that  always  rose  be- 
fore him.  In  the  dreary  nights  he  had  conjured  the 
picture  of  one  who  had  faith  in  him,  and  it  was  her 
face  that  he  saw,  its  expression  all  that  was  good  and 
beautiful !  How  he  had  longed  that  it  might  be  she ! 
And  were  it  true  he  could  fall  on  his  knees  before  her 
and  tell  her  his  life  belonged  to  her  to  do  with  as  she 
would.  Then  followed  his  acquittal,  and  her  father's 
tragic  pad;  and,  realizing  her  great  love  for  her 
father,  Le  dwelt  on  his  own  sorrow  and  of  how  he  had 
grieved  for  her.  Through  the  intervening  years  till 
they  again  met — years  that  to  him  had  been  a  strug- 
gle of  love,  it  was  for  her  that  he  fought  the  battle, 
for  her  he  had  sought  fame  that  he  might  lay  it  at 
her  feet  and  tell  her  of  his  love.  How  sweet  the 
hours  they  had  lately  spent  together !  And  at  last  he 
knew  the  truth. 


OEtoelptt  $an  CourtlanD,         343 

" And  it  was  you  who  saved  me,"  she  read, 

"you  who  believed  in  me  and  came  to  my  rescue; 
you  who  engaged  Strong,  and  wrung  from  him  a 
promise  not  to  disclose  your  identity.  He  has  been 
true  to  his  word,  and  never  betrayed  you.  Yes,  you 
it  was,  you,  my  love,  my  life.  I  know  it  now — I 
knew  it  when  I  last  saw  you.  I  could  have  clasped 
you  in  my  arms  and,  covering  your  face  with  kisses, 
have  died  content." 

"You  are  the  goddess  with  whom,  in  imagination, 
through  the  long  months  of  imprisonment,  I  dwelt, 
seeing  your  face,  hearing  your  voice,  for  I  had  heard 
you  speak.  The  picture  of  fancy  was  dear  to  me, 
and  I  thanked  Heaven  for  the  hope  it  gave;  but  hu- 
man mind  cannot  measure  my  joy  when  I  discov- 
ered that  in  you  I  had  found  the  original  of  the 
image  I  loved.  I  had  discovered  the  divinity  of  my 
dreams,  of  my  hopes,  and  in  the  flesh,  as  I  had  pic- 
tured her,  as  my  heart  knew  her;  and  it  was  you, 
my  life!" 

"And  now  you  ask  me  to  surrender  my  love  image  ? 
Never  to  see  you  again?" 

"I  answer  yes,  if  you  will  again  place  me  in  the 
cell,  and  give  back  to  me  the  mental  portrait  that  I 
loved.  You  must  do  more  than  that!  You  must 
blot  from  my  mind  all  memory  of  yourself,  leaving 
to  me  the  happiness  of  my  dreams  and  the  sweet  face 
that  I  loved.  Think  you  it  be  possible?  Yet  you 
ask  me  to  do  more !  To  surrender  you  and  the  love 


344 

that  I  have  found!  You  asked  me  if  I  would  have 
accepted  freedom  at  the  cost  of  another's  love,  or  by 
deceit?  Were  you  testing  my  faith  in  you?  Even 
now,  with  the  despair  of  the  past  few  days  still 
acute,  I  can  but  smile.  Trust  you!  Should  my 
trust  in  you  die,  my  faith  in  Heaven  would  go  with 
it" 

It  was  these  words  that  caused  Evelyn  to  cry  out 
in  agony.  The  letter  dropped  from  her  trembling 
hand  to  her  lap,  and  she  kept  repeating  the  words  till 
they  seemed  to  mock  her.  He  had  pronounced  her 
sentence,  her  doom;  there  was  nothing  left  but  to 
carry  her  purpose  into  effect 

He  had  written  a  postscript  to  tell  her  that  just 
as  he  had  finished  writing  he  received  a  note  from 
her  aunt  to  remind  him  of  his  promise  to  call  on 
her  the  following  Monday.  He  begged  her  to  meet 
him  on  the  same  footing  as  when  they  had  last  met. 
Till  their  next  meeting  he  would  hope;  his  faith 
would  live  through  her,  and  her  alone. 

She  lingered  over  the  words,  then  put  the  letter 
aside  and  tried  to  think.  But  her  mind  was  in  a 
turmoil,  and  her  confused  thoughts  refused  to  an- 
swer to  her  will. 

From  her  state  of  mental  incoherence  one  desire, 
one  purpose,  dominated  her.  She  must  place  dis- 
tance between  herself  and  her  lover,  get  away  from 
the  possibility  of  seeing  him,  from  the  danger  of 
forgetting  her  determination  to  end  all.  She  feared 


CourtlanD.         345 

herself,  for,  were  he  at  that  moment  to  stand  before 
her,  she  would  surrender  herself  to  his  embrace,  heed- 
less of  the  cost.  She  loved  him  with  all  the  passion 
of  her  soul,  as  they  love  who,  for  an  hour,  a  moment 
even,  of  unrestrained  passion,  surrender  their  soul. 

Toward  morning  she  lay  down  to  rest  and  sleep 
came  only  when  exhaustion  forced  the  nerves  and 
the  brain  to  quiet.  She  awoke  and  lay  still,  her 
mind  under  the  spell  of  his  words,  hopeless  as  are 
those  who  cry  out  but  whose  power  of  speech  has 
forsaken  them.  She  realized  only  too  well  that,  were 
she  to  remain  within  the  sphere  of  her  lover's  influ- 
ence, she  would  be  helpless.  Her  will  would  bend  at 
his  command,  she  would  tremble  at  the  sound  of  his 
voice ;  nor  could  she  resist  its  power.  He  had  but  to 
speak  for  her  to  obey ;  she  felt  herself  under  the  spell 
of  his  magnetic  will — a  will  she  could  not  resist. 

There  was  sweetness  in  the  thought.  In  her  own 
weakness  she  found  solace — it  relieved  her  of  the 
sense  of  moral  responsibility. 

With  a  cry  of  pain  she  arose,  startled,  filled  with 
terror  at  the  daring  of  her  fancies  and  illusions.  Her 
mind  had  run  riot,  and  she  stood  trembling  with  fear. 
Moved  by  an  impulse  of  childhood,  she  opened  the 
door  into  the  hall,  and,  spectre-like,  glided  to  her 
aunt's  room.  The  gray  of  the  dawn  stealing  through 
the  windows,  the  stillness,  the  dim  light  from  the  hall 
lamps — all  filled  her  with  trembling  terror.  But 
more  than  all  else  she  feared  herself — it  was  as  if  a 


346         Ctoelpn  .^an  CourtlanD. 

malignant  spirit  had  taken  possession  of  her  human 
frame,  an  incarnation  that  threatened  her  moral  and 
mental  being. 

Happing  at  the  door  of  her  aunt's  chamber,  she 
waited  trembling  and  expectant.  A  thousand  years 
seemed  to  roll  by  before  she  heard  her  aunt's  .voice : 

".Who  is  it  ?" 

"It  is  I,  Evelyn." 

The  sound  of  her  own  voice  caused  her  to  shudder ; 
it  was  strained,  unnatural,  as  though  another  stand- 
ing beside  her  had  spoken.  The  door  was  quickly 
opened  and  her  aunt's  arms  were  about  her. 

"What  is  it,  dear,  are  you  ill  ?" 

"Xo,  not  ill,  auntie ;  but  I — I  was  frightened.  Let 
me  stay  with  you  till  morning." 

Gently  her  aunt  led  her  to  the  bed  and,  forcing 
her  to  lie  down,  soothed  and  caressed  her.  With 
motherly  instinct  she  did  not  seek  to  learn  the  cause 
of  Evelyn's  nervous  condition,  and  the  young  girl 
remained  silent.  A  new  sense  of  security  stole  over 
her,  the  strain  of  the  past  night  relaxed,  and  she 
slept.  Her  aunt,  after  slipping  on  her  dressing 
gown,  sat  beside  the  bed  and  watched  the  face  of  the 
sleeper.  How  beautiful  it  was  in  repose!  At  in- 
tervals, however,  the  muscles  about  the  mouth 
twitched,  for  the  fevered  brain  of  the  sleeper  was 
still  active,  tortured  by  the  struggle  it  refused  to 
suspend,  even  while  the  body  was  at  rest.  The  head 
moved,  and  the  hand  on  which  it  rested  was  thrown 


OEtoelpn  $an  CourtlanH,         347 

on  the  coverlet.  Dreams,  vague  but  soul-disturbing, 
brought  a  slight  moan  to  the  sleeper's  lips.  In  her 
sleep  she  was  renouncing  her  lover,  whose  face  she 
recognized  in  a  concourse  of  people;  and  his  re- 
proachful eyes  were  upon  her.  Then  the  scene  shifted, 
and  she  was  alone  with  him,  kneeling  before  him. 
She  could  hear  his  voice  raised  in  anger  as  he  con- 
fronted her  with  charges  of  guilt  and  dishonor.  Once 
before  she  had  heard  the  same  words — words  that  her 
mother  had  met  with  a  laugh;  scoffing,  pitiless  in  its 
utter  disregard  of  the  husband  who  spoke.  Now  it  was 
her  lover  to  whom  the  sleeper  listened.  The  end  had 
come,  the  end  of  his  love,  the  end  of  all.  It  was  she, 
herself,  who  was  guilty. 

Shuddering  in  her  sleep,  she  moved  her  hand  in 
an  impatient  protest,  but  did  not  awake. 

Again  the  dream  was  renewed,  with  other  forms 
and  among  other  influences.  ~Now  she  was  in  despair, 
meeting  her  lover  in  a  final  farewell.  She  could  not 
understand  the  cause — she  only  knew  that  she  must 
part  with  him  forever.  Some  unseen  influence  or 
power  was  drawing  him  away  from  her.  Clinging  to 
him,  her  arms  were  about  his  neck,  her  lips  pressed 
to  his  in  a  lingering  caress.  If  she  could  only  die 
thus,  in  the  madness  of  their  embrace !  But  he  was 
leaving  her.  She  felt  his  breath  on  her  cheek,  that 
was  wet  with  her  own  tears.  He  was  putting  her 
from  him  with  force,  unclasping  her  arms  that  en- 
circled him.  She  struggled  in  her  efforts  to  go  with 


348         dEfceln  ^an  CourtlanD* 


him:  —  through  life,  or  to  death,  it  mattered  not  to 
her  so  that  she  might  be  with  him.     Then  came  the 
eternity  of  grief,  of  agony,  mourning  for  his  love. 
She  moved  and  opened  her  eyes.    Her  aunt  spoke  : 
"Remain  in  bed,  Evelyn,  dear,  I  will  send  your 
maid  with  a  cup  of  coffee." 

"Have  you  breakfasted,  auntie  ?" 
"Not  yet  ;  but  I  wouldn't  rise  if  I  were  you." 
"Send  my  maid  to  me,  please,  I  will  come  down  to 
breakfast-    I  am  quite  refreshed,  and  feel  well  again. 
Did  I  frighten  you  ?" 

"We  won't  talk  of  it  now,  child.  I'll  send  Lena 
to  you." 

Twenty  minutes  later  Evelyn  entered  the  break- 
fast room.  There  were  important  matters  to  discuss 
with  her  aunt,  and  she  must  act  without  delay.  The 
meal  progressed  without  reference  to  the  events  of 
the  past  night.  It  was  Evelyn's  desire  to  spare  her 
aunt,  bat  she  must  lose  no  further  time.  The  meal 
finished,  Evelyn  at  once  opened  the  subject. 

"Auntie,  dear,  I  have  delayed  telling  you  of  my 
meeting  with  mother  at  the  Vanderviers'  ;  but  it  is 
necessary  that  I  should  now  speak  of  it" 

"No,  my  dear,  it  is  not  necessary.  I  know  what 
you  would  say.  I  left  the  Vandervier's  early,  be- 
cause I  did  not  wish  to  run  the  risk  of  an  encounter 
with  her.  She  has  since  written  to  me,  threatening, 
unless  I  receive  her  in  my  house,  to  do  all  sorts  of 


CourtlanD,         349 

disagreeable  things.  Of  course,  Evelyn,  it  is  impos- 
sible for  me  to  accede  to  her  demands." 

"She  has  threatened?"  Evelyn  asked,  controlling 
her  agitation. 

"I  hardly  know  what  she  means.  She  makes 
vague  allusions  to  her  married  life,  to  your  poor 
father,  and  closed  her  communication  by  saying  that 
I  must  recognize  her  socially.  That  is,  you  know, 
quite  impossible." 

Evelyn  sighed  with  satisfaction.  Her  aunt  did 
not,  as  yet,  know  of  her  mother's  intention. 

"Might  it  not  be  better,"  she  said,  "to  make  some 
slight  concession — if  only  to  appease  her  pride  ?" 

"My  dear  child,  she  is  your  mother,  hence  I  do 
not  wish  to  be  unduly  harsh ;  but  remember  I  am  an 
old  lady.  I  have  held  the  confidence  and  respect  of 
many  great  men,  of  their  wives  and  of  their  daugh- 
ters. I  cannot  consent  to  run  the  risk  of  losing  their 
good  opinion.  No,  whatver  she  may  choose  to  do,  or 
to  say,  will  not  influence  me.  My  career  will  soon 
end.  I  shall  not  mar  it  by  an  act  for  which  I  would 
blush." 

"But,"  Evelyn  insisted,  "suppose  in  a  spirit  of 
revenge  she  should  say  something  to — to  bring  dis- 
honor on  my  father's  name.  You  would  feel  that 
more  keenly  than  you  would  the  loss  of  your  friends." 

"You  are  right.  It  would  grieve  me  deeply;  but 
it  would  not  change  my  resolve." 


350         oftielpn  i^an  CourtlanD. 

Further  discussion  of  the  subject  Evelyn  felt 
would  be  useless.  It  answered  one  purpose — that  of 
furnishing  her  with  an  excuse  for  leaving  Washing- 
ton. Before  stating  her  determination  to  go  she  had 
introduced  the  topic,  hoping  that,  in  some  way,  it 
would  make  easier  her  task  of  telling  her  aunt  that 
she  was  about  to  leave  her.  She  feared  that  her 
abrupt  departure  would  arouse  her  aunt's  suspicions, 
but  she  was  anxious  to  have  the  ordeal  over. 

"Auntie,  dear,  I  have  decided  to  return  to  New 
York — at  once." 

Evelyn's  face  flushed;  she  was  conscious  that  her 
abrupt  announcement  would  be  met  with  a  demand 
for  explanations. 

"Why,  Evelyn,  what  are  you  saying  ?" 

The  old  lady's  voice  betrayed  her  surprise. 

"You  know,  aunt,  since  the  interview  with  my 
mother,  I  have  realized  how  impossible  it  is  for  me 
to  remain  here.  I  must,  if  I  go  out  at  all,  meet  her. 
That  I  cannot  do.  Besides,  I  know  that,  if  I  were 
not  with  you,  she  would  feel  less  keenly  your  refusal 
to  receive  her.  Oh.  I  have  thought  it  all  out,  and 
considered  it  well,"  she  went  on,  as  her  aunt  was 
about  to  interrupt  her.  "I  have  pondered  the  sub- 
ject from  every  point  of  view.  It  is  best  that  I  go. 
I  can  send  a  telegraph  message  to  James  to  have  the 
house  in  readiness." 

Her  arms  stole  about  her  aunt's  neck.  She  must 
appeal  to  the  motherly  side  of  her  nature. 


$an  CourtlanD,         351 

"All  of  last  night,"  she  continued,  falteringly,  "I 
lay  awake,  till  I  came  to  your  room.  I  could  not 
sleep.  I  have  not  slept  for  nights.  I  feel  keenly  the 
position  in  which  I  am  placed,  living  in  the  same 
city  with  my  mother,  yet  under  a  different  roof.  I 
know  what  is  said  of  it.  It  is  a  subject  of  public 
gossip;  yet  I  do  not  desire  to  renew  my  relations 
with  her.  It  sounds  harsh,  even  unnatural  for  me 
to  say  it,  but  I  can't  help  it.  I  have  tried  to  bring 
myself  to  overlook  her  shortcomings,  to  forget  what 
my  father  suffered;  but  I  would  despise  myself  still 
more  were  I  to  play  the  hypocrite.  Dear  aunt,  can't 
you  see  it  is  best  for  me,  at  least  for  the  present,  to 
return  to  New  York?  I  know  you  will  be  lonely, 
but  after  adjournment  you  can  come  to  me  for  a 
long  visit." 

"Why  this  haste,  my  dear  ?  Surely  it  will  require 
some  days  for  you  to  get  ready.  No,  I  can't  consent 
to  your  going  on  such  short  notice." 

"Ah,  if  you  only  realized  what  I  suffered  during 
the  past  few  nights !" 

Evelyn's  cheek  was  pressed  to  her  aunt's,  and  her 
delicate  fingers  fondled  the  white  hair.  "I  know," 
she  continued  coaxingly,  "you  would  not  have  me 
ill,  yet " 

"There,  there,  child,  you  do  upset  me  so!  Of 
course  I  would  not  have  you  work  yourself  into  a 
fever  over  this  unfortunate  affair.  But  to-morrow 


352         OEtoelprt  $att  Courtlantu 


will  be  quite  time  enough.    Why,  what  can  I  tell  the 
people  that  will  be  here  to-night  ?    Impossible  !" 

"No,  no,  auntie,  dear,  it  is  not  impossible.  They 
won't  mind.  You  can  say  —  say  business  affairs  made 
it  necessary  that  I  should  go.  Oh,  I  want  so  much 
to  be  there  —  to  rest,  to  sleep." 

"There,  calm  yourself,  my  dear.  I  suppose  we 
can  arrange  it  so  that  you  may  go  on  the  afternoon 
train.  Lena  will  attend  to  the  packing.  I  will  send 
the  butler  for  your  tickets  and  to  engage  your  seats. 
Ring  for  him,  dear." 

Evelyn  did  as  directed.  She  listened  to  her  aunt 
with  a  feeling  of  joy  while  she  gave  the  directions: 
—  "Two  seats  in  the  Pullman  car  for  the  one  o'clock 
express.  The  carriage  to  be  at  the  door  at  12  :30 
sharp  ;  lunch  to  be  served  at  12  o'clock." 

The  ordeal  was  over.  She  had  succeeded  with  her 
aunt  far  better  than  she  had  anticipated.  A  little 
deception,  true,  yet  the  end  justified  it.  At  last  she 
was  to  go,  her  purpose  was  to  be  fulfilled.  She  would 
leave  behind  all  hope  that  the  world  held  for  her; 
but  she  would  be  safe  from  the  danger  of  meeting 
her  lover  again  —  safe  from  herself,  and  from  the  fear 
of  carrying  out  her  resolve. 

With  a  lighter  heart  she  busied  herself  in  prepara- 
tion for  the  journey.  At  times  she  was  swayed  by 
an  impulse  to  steal  quietly  from  the  house,  drive  to 
the  Capitol  and,  from  the  gallery,  look  once  more 
at  her  lover's  face.  There  could  be  but  little  danger 


OEtoelpn  $an  CourtlanD,         353 

of  being  discovered.  Many  times  she  hesitated.  Just 
one  look — to  treasure  through  the  hopeless  years  that 
were  before  her.  But  better  judgment  prevailed.  If 
she  were  to  succeed  in  her  renunciation  of  her  lover 
the  present  was  the  time  to  put  her  resolve  to  the 
test.  No,  her  courage  would  triumph.  She  would 
not  invite  discovery  by  such  an  act;  and  a  trembling 
of  the  lip  was  the  only  outward  evidence  of  what  the 
struggle  cost  her. 

Lunch  time  came  at  last.  Never  had  her  art  of 
dissembling  been  taxed  as  during  the  meal: — her 
enforced  gaiety  meeting  her  aunt's  glance  of  concern, 
partaking  of  food,  though  emotion  threatened  to  stifle 
her.  Her  aunt  had  thought  much  since  their  conver- 
sation of  the  early  morning.  From  large  experience 
she  had  learned  to  look  below  the  surface,  and  she 
was  quick  to  see  that  there  was  another  reason  than 
a  desire  not  to  meet  her  mother  that  influenced  Ev- 
elyn. She  suspected  the  true  cause  of  Evelyn's  sud- 
den departure;  but  regard  for  her  niece  forbade  her 
offering  advice. 

The  leave-taking  was  over.  Evelyn,  with  her 
maid,  was  in  the  carriage  that  was  being  rapidly 
driven  to  the  station. 

"Go  round  by  the  Capitol,  John,  and  down  the 
Avenue.  There  will  be  time,  and  the  day  is  fine." 

Moved  by  the  vain  hope  of  seeing  Malcolm,  she 
had  given  the  order.  What  possible  chance  of  meet- 
ing Lim  was  there  in  a  drive  by  the  Capitol  ?  One  in 


3541         o&jeln  l^an  CouttlanD* 


a  thousand,  she  thought,  and  smiled  at  the  impulse 
that  had  prompted  her  command. 

But  fate  seemed  to  have  guided  her.  As  the  car- 
riage turned  into  Pennsylvania  Avenue,  Malcolm 
was  leaving  the  Capitol  grounds.  For  an  instant 
only  she  leaned  toward  the  window,  then,  as  the  car- 
riage turned  rapidly,  sank  back  into  her  seat.  In 
the  glimpse  she  had  caught  of  his  face,  there  was  joy 
which  could  not  be  taken  from  her. 

At  the  station  she  was  confronted  by  the  customary 
crowd  and  confusion,  for  an  unusual  number  of  so- 
ciety people  were  going  South. 

A  few  minutes  after  she  had  arrived  at  the  station 
she  boarded  the  train.  From  the  window  of  the  Pull- 
man car  in  which  she  was  seated  with  her  maid,  she 
caught  a  last  glimpse  of  the  dome  of  the  Capitol. 


$att  CouctlanD,         355 


CHAPTEK  XXIV. 

IN  the  well  filled  rooms  of  the  Chesborough  man- 
sion the  intelligence  was  passed  from  one  to  the  other 
than  the  hostess'  niece,  the  beautiful  Miss  Van  Court- 
land,  had  suddenly  departed  for  New  York ;  and,  by 
a  strange  coincidence,  the  Count  also  had  left  the 
city.  Within  ten  minutes  after  Malcolm's  arrival, 
the  fact  had  reached  his  ears. 

In  the  crush,  he  had  had  no  opportunity  to  do 
more  than  exchange  greetings  with  his  hostess,  but 
the  few  moments  she  gave  to  him  were  marked  by  an 
expression  of  friendliness  touched  by  genuine  feel- 
ing. The  old  lady  had  made  no  mention  of  Evelyn, 
and  he  had  moved  on,  and  mingled  among  the  other 
guests,  till,  hearing  her  name  spoken,  he  learned  of 
her  departure,  also  of  the  fact  that  the  Count  had 
left  the  city. 

At  the  first  opportunity,  pleading  a  political  ap- 
pointment as  an  excuse,  he  took  leave  of  his  hostess, 
who  made  no  effort  to  detain  him,  for  she  divined  the 
reason  for  his  sudden  departure.  Neither  did  she 
speak  of  Evelyn,  but,  insisting  that  he  present  him- 
self at  her  next  "Evening,"  bade  him  good-night. 


356         dEtoelpn  |£an  CourtlanU, 

While  he  remained  at  the  Chesborough  house,  by  no 
outward  sign  did  he  manifest  that  he  was  moved; 
but  once  outside,  the  full  measure  of  his  loss  swept 
over  him. 

Evelyn  had  gone: — without  so  much  as  a  word,  a 
line  of  explanation  or  regret.  She  had  not  even  con- 
sidered his  letter  worthy  of  a  reply — a  letter  in  which 
he  had  poured  forth  his  love,  and  laid  bare  the  inner 
thoughts  and  emotions  of  his  soul.  He  had  offered 
all  he  had  to  offer;  he  had  given  her  all  that  a  man 
can  give;  and  she  had  trampled  it  under  foot  as 
something  unworthy  even  of  notice. 

It  was  not  like  her,  he  argued,  wishing  to  find 
some  excuse  for  her  act,  in  no  way  was  it  like  her — 
nor  was  it  an  indication  of  her  true  character;  but 
the  fact  that  she  had  gone  could  not  be  denied.  She 
scorned  his  love,  and,  by  ignoring  his  letter,  had 
taken  the  most  certain  means  of  humiliating  and  si- 
lencing him.  Walking  aimlessly  toward  the  open 
country,  he  set  himself  to  arguing  in  her  defence, 
trying,  meanwhile,  to  find  some  reason  that  would 
excuse  her  conduct.  But  the  task  baffled  his  in- 
genuity. His  mind  grasped  the  one  overwhelming 
truth:  she  had  discarded  him,  and  he  was  alone. 
Then  a  sudden  transition  of  feeling  swept  over  him. 
At  that  moment  he  could  have  lifted  the  giant  Rus- 
sian bodily  and  hurled  him  to  the  ground.  Xot  that 
he  believed  that  Evelyn  had  gone  with  him,  that 
part  of  the  story  he  did  not  credit ;  his  rage  was  occa- 


OEfcelpn  $an  CourtlanD*         357 

sioned  by  the  fact  that  the  Count  had  dared  to  love 
her.  This  was  sufficient  to  fill  him  with  blind,  un- 
reasoning passion.  Then  calmer  reason  prevailed. 
Realizing  the  distance  he  had  walked,  he  turned 
homeward.  The  more  he  considered  his  loss,  the  less 
reconciled  he  became.  Then  a  mad  thought  pre- 
sented : — would  he  follow  her  to  New  York,  and,  con- 
triving to  meet  her,  make  a  personal  appeal — de- 
mand of  her  the  cause  of  her  refusal  to  see  him. 
When  he  had  told  her  of  his  love,  and  that,  with  or 
without  her  consent,  he  would  devote  his  life  to  her, 
he  might  induce  her  to  listen.  Realizing  the  vanity 
of  the  thought,  he  smiled.  No,  he  believed  her  de- 
cision to  be  final.  And,  after  all,  why  should  he  have 
expected  a  different  result  ?  She  entertained  for  him 
feelings  of  regard,  of  pity,  yes,  even  love;  but  con- 
sideration of  her  future  had  prompted  her  decision. 
The  shadow  of  a  crime  still  hung  over  him;  he  had 
once  been  accused.  He  knew  the  world — knew  that 
it  did  not  easily  forget.  With  the  individual  it  is  the 
same.  Were  she  not  to  consider  his  position  she 
would  not  be  human.  Again  he  fell  to  inventing  ex- 
cuses; of  proving  to  his  own  satisfaction  that  she 
was  right.  And  before  entering  the  hotel,  he  had  de- 
luded himself  into  the  belief  that  the  woman  he  loved 
had,  under  the  circumstances,  done  wrhat  any  right- 
minded  woman  would  do — refused  his  love. 

This  thought  did  not  make  him  the  happier,  and, 


358          Cfcclmt  Dan  CourtlmiD* 

when  he  entered  his  room,  he  sat  himself  down  to 
think  it  out  all  over  again. 

Love  follows  no  rule;  it  conforms  to  neither  plan 
nor  reason.  Malcolm  was  old  in  knowledge  of  the 
world,  wise  in  the  principles  and  the  workings  of 
human  law.  To  fathom  human  nature  was,  to  him, 
as  easy  as  to  understand  an  untutored,  though  cun- 
ning child.  The  child  measures  the  wit  of  others  by 
its  own,  failing  to  make  allowance  for  the  wisdom 
that  comes  with  age  and  experience.  Malcolm  was 
considered  a  far-sighted,  keen,  reliable  man  of  the 
world;  one,  too,  who  would  inspire  confidence  and 
respect.  But  Malcolm  in  love  was  quite  another  be- 
ing; and  he  immediately  resolved  into  the  ordinary 
and  hopeless  human  child.  Wisdom  entirely  for- 
sook him,  and  he  believed  that  in  all  the  world  there 
was  not  another  so  utterly  miserable  as  himself. 
Walking  the  floor,  he  smoked  one  cigar  after  an- 
other, swore  mildly  as  was  becoming  a  Congressman, 
and,  when  he  found  that  lamenting  his  loss  offered 
no  promise  of  bringing  him  nearer  his  love,  he  raved 
at  the  Russian,  and  in  the  next  breath  scoffed  at 
what  he  had  heard  as  being  rank,  futile  gossip.  Then, 
to  further  ease  his  mind,  he  sat  down  to  pour  forth 
his  agony  of  soul  in  another  letter  to  Evelyn. 

At  that  moment,  could  he  have  seen  the  woman  he 
loved  in  a  great  house,  every  room  sacred  from  the 
associations  of  her  girlhood — could  he  have  looked 
at  her,  her  face  buried  in  the  soft  cushions  of  a  divan, 


OEtoelpn  $an  Courtland*         359 

fighting  out  the  battle  of  her  soul,  then  would  he 
have  realized  how  a  woman  may  love  and  suffer. 

Evelyn  had  arrived  in  the  early  evening  and  found 
everything  in  readiness.  The  house  had  been  opened, 
and  the  rooms,  brilliantly  lighted,  presented  a  cheer- 
ful and  homelike  aspect.  She  met  the  servants  with 
her  customary  gentleness,  drank  a  cup  of  tea  and, 
refusing  further  service,  requested  that  the  lights  be 
lowered.  She  needed  rest,  she  said,  and  quiet,  and 
dismissing  her  maid,  she  was  left  alone. 

It  was  only  by  a  firm  resolve  not  to  give  way  to 
her  grief  that  she  controlled  her  emotion  when  she 
first  entered  the  drawing  room.  It  was  here  she  had 
sat  with  her  father,  reading  or  playing  for  him,  and 
after  the  tragedy,  soothing  him  as  she  would  soothe 
a  child.  It  was  here,  too,  she  had  first  learned  of 
his  death;  so  sudden,  yet,  in  the  light  of  events,  so 
merciful.  She  seemed  to^hear  his  voice  ringing  with 
passion,  as  she  had  heard  it  on  that  fatal  night  that 
was  the  beginning  of  a  tragedy  that  had  not  yet 
ended.  That  was  the  beginning;  by  her,  herself,  it 
must  be  brought  to  a  close.  Harlan,  her  father,  Le 
Moyne,  and  now — she  shuddered — Malcolm!  His 
love,  too,  must  be  sacrificed.  With  a  shudder,  she 
turned  from  the  room.  It  brought  before  her  thoughts 
that  struck  terror  to  her  heart,  her  courage  sank,  for 
she  felt  that  she  was  in  the  meshes  of  a  power  from 
which  she  could  not  escape. 


360         (Etoelpn  $an  CourtlanD* 


An  animal  tugging  at  the  end  of  a  lariat  plunges 
and  writhes  until,  exhausted,  it  falls.  It  is  a  lack 
of  wisdom  that  prompts  the  struggle  which,  from  the 
first,  is  hopeless.  It  is  only  a  question  of  time  till  its 
strength  gives  way  to  a  superior  force.  The  human 
struggle  that  held  Evelyn  in  its  grasp  was  a  struggle 
of  the  senses,  of  the  heart  and  the  soul.  She  be- 
lieved herself  under  the  influence  of  fate  —  she  was 
fighting  a  battle  against  the  instinct  of  heredity. 

When  she  was  alone  in  her  room  she  lay  on  the 
divan,  sobs  shaking  her  frame,  for  at  last,  in  her 
loneliness,  she  had  given  herself  up  to  her  grief. 
Here  was  a  struggle  that  had  been  fought  out  times 
unnumbered,  through  centuries  of  forgotten  years  — 
a  struggle  in  which  many  had  conquered,  and  many 
had  fallen.  She  believed  that  in  renouncing  her 
lover,  in  flying  from  the  danger  of  his  presence,  of 
his  personal  appeal,  she  had  triumphed  over  herself 
and  her  longing,  burning  desire  for  his  love.  How 
little  she  knew  of  the  workings  of  the  human  heart  — 
how  sadly  she  misjudged  herself  and  her  own  power. 
At  that  moment  her  mind  said  —  "I  have  given  him 
up,  to  me  he  is  lost  forever."  But  the  heart  was  cry- 
ing with  still  greater  agony,  "I  love  him,  he  is  mine, 
mine;  let  the  world  talk  —  it  is  my  heart,  my  soul 
that  is  in  the  balance.  To  feel  his  lips  touch  mine, 
his  breath  on  my  cheek,  to  know  that  in  all  the  world 
no  one  could  take  him  from  me,  that  he  was  all  mine 
—  a  day,  an  hour,  a  minute,  of  such  happiness  is 


$att  Courtlantu         SGI 

more  to  me  than  a  thousand  years  of  life  without 
him.  And  if  it  be  not  so,  what  then  is  left  for  me  ? 
Years  that  will  be  a  blank,  except  for  the  torture  of 
knowing  that  another  is  receiving  the  caress  that  is 
of  right  mine.  And  he,  too,  would  be  false  to  his 
vow,  for  his  love  forever  belongs  to  me.  And  should 
another's  arms  encircle  him,  his  wedding  day  would 
be  cursed  with  thoughts  unholy  in  their  truth,  for 
his  mind  and  heart  would  go  back  to  me — to  his  love. 
And  the  kiss  he  would  give  would  be  carnal,  of  the 
flesh,  for  his  love  would  be  for  me  alone." 

She  had  dried  her  tears,  and,  rising,  slowly  paced 
the  room.  She  was  calmer;  the  torrent  of  grief,  of 
sorrow,  had  spent  its  force;  and  now  remorse 
touched  both  heart  and  mind — remorse  for  thoughts 
that  came  unbidden  and  that  would  not  be  stilled; 
impulses  before  which  she  was  helpless.  What 
strange  power  was  it  that  seemed  to  control  her  facul- 
ties, till  she  bowed  before  it  as  to  a  superior  will. 
She  tried  to  shake  off  the  influence,  laughing  hyster- 
ically as  the  possibility  presented  that  it  might  tri- 
umph. 

Then  her  mood  changed.  Surrendering  herself  to 
the  joy  of  her  last  meeting  with  Malcolm,  she  rev- 
eled in  the  memory.  How  gentle,  how  considerate  he 
had  been.  And  his  letter — such  tender  passages! 

Again  she  read  his  missive — read  it  from  begin- 
ning to  end,  standing  under  the  light,  her  beauty 
never  so  full,  so  radiant  as  now,  a  flush  of  delight,  of 


362         OBDelpn  $an  CourtlanD, 

tender  passion,  suffusing  neck  and  cheek.  His  letter 
that  he  had  touched  was  in  her  hand.  In  its  sweet 
possession  she  seemed  to  feel  his  presence  and,  with 
a  sigh  of  contentment,  she  lingered  on  the  words,  re- 
peating the  tender  passages  aloud,  and,  still  unsatis- 
fied, reading  them  again  and  again.  How  beautiful 
were  his  thoughts,  and  how  he  must  love  her !  "And 
here,"  she  murmured  aloud,  "where  he  refers  to  my 
father's  death!  How  tenderly  considerate.  How 
pure  and  noble  must  be  his  mind.  Expressing  his 
sorrow  for  me,  when  I  had  turned  him  away,  dis- 
carded him  without  a  word  of  excuse  or  explana- 
tion." 

Reading,  she  again  came  to  the  recital  of  the  feel- 
ings and  emotions  attending  his  trial,  of  the  image 
his  fancy  had  framed.  Tears  dimmed  her  eyes,  and 
she  could  read  no  further. 

Then  fear  overwhelmed  her.  Should  he  learn  the 
truth,  that  she  was  the  daughter  of  a  murderer,  and 
that,  with  the  knowledge  of  what  he  had  been  made 
to  suffer  for  her  father's  act,  she  had  encouraged  his 
love — would  he  not  then  revile  her  ?  And  she  could 
offer  no  word  in  her  own  defence. 

Returning  to  the  letter,  she  again  surrendered  to 
the  delight  of  reading  his  words  of  love,  giving  her- 
self up  to  their  influence,  steeping  her  being,  her  soul, 
in  the  incense  of  passion.  The  words  she  had  read 
seemed  to  burn  into  her  brain  until  reason  was  be- 
numbed. Doubt  again  was  in  the  ascendancy. 


Courtiantu         363 

"Shall  I  give  him  up?  Why  should  I  crush  my 
own  heart?" 

Into  her  voice,  scarcely  audible,  had  crept  a  note 
of  desperation.  The  expression  of  her  face  was  no 
longer  that  of  a  young  girl  affrighted  at  her  passion. 
It  was  the  calm,  confident  woman  of  the  world  who 
spoke,  with  knowledge  of  her  own  power,  and 
strength  of  will  to  carry  her  purpose  into  effect. 

"He  loves  me!  Why  should  I  turn  from  him? 
Why  mar  his  life  and  his  love — and  my  own  ?  If  I 
consent,  I  am  but  fulfilling  my  destiny." 

Sinking  into  a  chair  before  her  desk,  she  mechan- 
ically took  up  a  pen,  and  placed  note-paper  before 
her.  So  far  her  movements  had  been  controlled  by 
force  of  habit.  The  brain  had  not  been  called  upon 
to  exercise  its  functions.  Dipping  the  pen  into  the 
ink,  she  had  placed  her  hand  on  the  paper.  Still  no 
mental  effort  had  been  employed.  But  she  must 
frame  the  first  word,  and  the  brain  was  set  in  motion. 
The  pen  dropped  from  her  fingers  and,  with  a  stifled 
cry  of  horror,  she  drew  back.  For  a  full  minute  she 
sat  motionless,  stunned  by  the  thought  of  putting  her 
resolve  into  execution.  Five  minutes  went  by  and 
still  she  remained  impassive,  unable  to  spur  herself 
to  take  the  step  that  would  forever  make  retreat  im- 
possible. Delirious  thoughts  flooded  her  brain,  rea- 
son refused  to  be  brought  under  subjection ;  and  out 
of  the  conflict  one  impulse  gradually  assumed  con- 
trol:— to  pick  up  the  pen  and  carry  out  her  resolve. 


364         (gtoelpn  $an  CourtlanD* 


She  must  do  it,  or  forever  renounce  the  man  she 
loved.  She  began  to  write.  Rapidly  she  penned  the 
words,  begging  him  to  come  to  her.  On  the  instant 
a  full  realization  of  her  purpose  possessed  her.  With 
a  cry  she  rose,  and,  holding  the  unfinished  letter  over 
the  gas  jet,  watched  the  charred  remnant  turn  to 
ashes. 

As  she  threw  herself  on  a  couch  the  gray  light  of 
dawn  stole  through  the  windows. 


$att  CourtlanD*         365 


CHAPTEK  XXV. 

MAJOR  STRONG  was  alone  in  his  office,  a  letter 
from  Malcolm  in  his  hand.  The  few  words  it  con- 
tained informed  the  Major  that  his  partner  was  de- 
termined on  giving  up  his  public  career,  and  return- 
ing to  New  York  and  to  the  practice  of  law.  The 
letter  also  stated  that  the  writer  would  start  the  fol- 
lowing morning  to  confer  with  his  colleague.  'No 
reason  for  his  sudden  resolve  was  given;  no  excuse 
offered ;  but  the  fixed  purpose  of  the  writer  was  made 
clear. 

Strong  was  not  pleased ;  in  fact,  he  was  filled  with 
dismay  and  rage.  ISTot  that  he  believed  the  young 
Congressman  would  succeed  in  carrying  his  purpose 
into  effect — the  old  lawyer  grimly  declared  he  would 
prevent  it ;  his  anger  was  for  the  fate  that  threatened 
the  happiness  of  the  lovers.  He  needed  no  explana- 
tion to  understand  the  true  state  of  affairs.  He  had 
anticipated  just  such  a  condition  as  now  existed.  But 
he  was  rot  prepared  for  the  result — Malcolm's  declar- 
ation that  he  would  retire  from  public  life.  Strong's 
interest  was  centered  in  his  partner's  career,  and,  he 
argued,  should  the  young  man  carry  out  his  present 
purpose,  he  would  be  ruined,  politically,  for  all  time. 


366         OBtjelpn  ^att  CourtlanU* 


"Well,"  he  mused,  "it  has  come  about  as  I  ex- 
pected. At  any  rate,  the  worst  is  over.  Believing 
he  doesn't  know  the  truth  about  her  father  and  fear- 
ing that  he  will  some  day  discover  it,  she  refused 
him.  He,  the  young  devil,  is  too  over-nice  and  high- 
strung  to  make  a  clean  breast  of  it,  and  so  they're  at 
logger-heads.  Now  his  heart  is  broken,  and  I  must 
gather  the  fragments  and  patch  them  up.  I'd  like  to 
have  him  here  at  this  moment  —  I'd  cuff  his  ears." 

A  knock  at  the  door  and  it  was  opened  by  Betts. 
"Telegram,  sir,"  said  the  clerk,  handing  it  to  his  em- 
ployer. 

After  Betts  had  returned  to  his  desk,  the  Major 
opened  the  telegram. 

"Shall  arrive  on  train  due  3  :30.  Please  wait  in 
office."  Signed  "Malcolm." 

"I'll  wait,"  said  Strong,  aloud,  "you  bet  I'll  wait! 
I  think,  young  man,  I  can  succeed  in  giving  you  an 
interesting  quarter  of  an  hour  !" 

Again  Betts  presented  himself.  He  handed  a  card 
to  the  Major. 

"Lady  is  waiting,  sir." 

"I  will  see  her  at  once,"  Strong  replied.  "Evelyn 
here!"  he  said  aloud  when  Betts  had  gone.  "What 
consummate  luck!  It's  now  nearly  3  o'clock.  I'll 
keep  her  engaged  for  an  hour  or  so.  That  young  ras- 
cal should  be  here  within  an  hour.  Ah,  Miss  Van 
Courfland,  I  am  delighted." 

Evelyn,  pale  and  weary,  entered. 


OBtielpn  $att  CourtlanD.         367 

The  Major  advanced  with  outstretched  hands  and 
led  her  to  a  seat. 

"This  is  somewhat  of  a  surprise,"  he  continued, 
his  face  beaming  with  good  nature.  He  evidently  re- 
fused to  consider  a  lover's  trouble  from  their  tragic 
point  of  view.  "You're  looking  the  picture  of 
health." 

Though  he  noted  her  pallor  and  air  of  dejection, 
he  was  not  inclined  to  sympathize  with  her. 

"I  am  in  my  usual  health,"  she  answered.  "Quite 
well  enough  to  attend  to  business  matters." 

A  tremulous  uncertainty  in  her  voice  did  not  es- 
cape her  listener. 

"She's  neither  in  her  usual  health  nor  is  she  in  a 
condition  to  attend  to  business  matters,"  was  Strong's 
mental  conclusion.  "Why,"  he  mused,  "do  most 
women  foster  the  belief  that,  at  all  times  and  under 
all  circumstances,  they  are  deceiving  mankind?  ' 
Aloud  Le  said: 

"I  left  you  in  Washington  at  the  height  of  the  sea- 
son, with  never  a  thought  of  business." 

"True.  I  tired  of  it;  so  I  have  decided  to  go  to 
Europe  for  a  protracted  stay.  I  shall  sail  on  Satur- 
day. Before  going,  I  wish  to  place  my  affairs  in 
your  hands." 

"Really,  this  is  sudden,"  he  replied  with  interest. 
"You  won't  go  on  Saturday's  boat  if  I  can  prevent 
it,"  was  his  mental  comment.  Force  of  habit,  more 


368         Ctoelpn  $an  CourtlanD* 

than  a  desire  to  add  to  her  evident  distress,  prompted 
him  to  assume  the  role  of  cross-examiner. 

"Mr.  Malcolm  was  enjoying  his  usual  health,  I 
presume,  when  you  last  saw  him?" 

"Yes,"  she  faltered.  "I  have  not,  however,  seen 
him  for  several  days." 

The  blood  rushed  to  her  cheeks.  Her  companion 
was  toying  with  Malcolm's  letter,  meanwhile  measur- 
ing the  effect  of  his  questions. 

"She  has  cried  her  heart  out,"  he  thought.  Then 
aloud : 

"He  has,  I  presume,  informed  you  of  his  intention 
to  retire  from  public  life  ?" 

For  a  moment,  surprise  left  her  incapable  of 
speech.  Then  she  faltered : 

"Giving  up  his  public  career!  You  cannot  mean 
it  It  cant  be  true !" 

"Quite  true,"  he  blandly  answered.  "I  will  read 
you  his  letter." 

He  only  read  the  part  of  the  letter  that  referred  to 
the  writer's  determination  to  resign  his  seat.  The 
lines  announcing  Malcolm's  speedy  return  to  New 
York  he  omitted.  "A  little  suspense  and  uncertainty 
might  be  productive  of  good,"  thought  the  Major. 

While  he  read  sorrow  and  despair  were  depicted 
on  her  features,  in  her  eyes,  and  by  a  hopeless  move- 
ment of  her  hand.  Her  companion's  face  was  calm, 
his  manner  unresponsive ;  but  he  was  deeply  moved. 
As  he  finished  her  glance  of  mute  entreaty  met  his. 


CotirtlanD.         369 

"He  must  not  do  it,"  she  exclaimed.  "Major,  you 
will  prevent  him  from  carrying  out  his  intention." 

"I  prevent  him !"  he  laughed  softly.  "It  can't  be 
done.  No,  he  says  he'll  resign  his  seat  in  Congress, 
and  he'll  do  it.  Of  course,  it  means  ruin  for  him.  I 
wonder,"  he  asked,  meeting  her  glance,  "what  is  the 
cause  of  his  rash  resolve?" 

Agitation  threatened  to  overcome  her.  Her  lips 
trembled,  and  she  made  an  involuntary  movement  to 
rise;  then  sank  back  into  her  chair.  Overwhelmed 
with  the.  thought  that  she  alone  was  to  blame,  believ- 
ing the  ruin  of  his  career  would  be  the  result  of  her 
refusal  to  marry  him,  a  faintness  came  over  her. 
.What  could  she  do  ?  How  explain  to  Strong  her  po- 
sition? Her  expression  of  hopelessness  touched 
him.  He  resolved  to  strike  quickly  at  the  heart  of 
the  matter. 

"I  presume,"  he  said  calmly,  as  if  voicing  a  vague 
conjecture,  "that  Mr.  Malcolm  finds  it  impossible  to 
overcome  the  after-effects  of  his  trial.  In  many  re- 
spects he  is  peculiar.  While  defending  him  he  never 
made  a  confidant  of  me,  only  to  assure  me  of  his  in- 
nocence. That  was  unnecessary,  for  I  knew  it."  He 
glanced  at  her  to  measure  the  effect  of  his  words. 
"Have  you  ever  considered  that  Malcolm,  during  his 
trial,  must  have  known  who  caused  Harlan's  death  ?" 

"No,  no;  impossible!" 

Her  tone  was  incredulous.  The  blood  rushed  to 
her  cheek.  In  her  eyes  there  was  sudden  alarm. 


370         Ctjelpn  l^att  CourtlanD. 


"I  believe  it,"  he  said  calmly  ;  "more,  I  know  it  !" 

Though  aware  that  he  was  inflicting  pain,  that  his 
words  would  awaken  a  double  cause  for  sorrow,  he 
courageously  resolved  to  pursue  the  subject  to  the 
end. 

"You  know,"  he  resumed,  "the  evidence  at  the  trial 
disclosed  the  fact  that  Malcolm  was  not  the  only  one 
who  visited  Harlan  the  night  of  the  tragedy.  Some- 
one was  seen  to  enter  the  house  after  Malcolm  had 
left  it.  That  person  was  known  to  him.  Of  that  I 
am  satisfied,  though  the  young  man  has  always  re- 
fused to  acknowledge  it,  even  to  me.  For  reasons 
known  only  to  himself,  he  jeopardized  his  life  to 
shield  the  one  who  committed  the  deed.  Why  he  re- 
mained silent  I  cannot  answer.  It  may  have  been 
because  of  gratitude,  or  love  -  " 

A  suppressed  moan  interrupted  him.  He  looked 
at  Evelyn.  She  was  sitting  motionless,  deathly  pale, 
her  eyes  fixed  on  his  face.  Pity  filled  him,  yet  with 
her  future  as  well  as  his  partner's  at  stake,  the  pres- 
ent was  not  a  time  for  weakness  on  his  part  As  she 
remained  silent,  he  continued  : 

"Yes,  I  am  satisfied  he  was  impelled  by  the  highest 
motives,  though  one  hardly  expects  in  this  practical 
age  to  meet  with  such  heroism.  If  it  were  love  that 
demanded  such  a  sacrifice,  his  must  have  been  a  pas- 
sion that  few  men  know.  The  woman  who  could 
awaken  it  should  be  very  happy." 


CourtlanO. 

"Don't,  don't,"  she  sobbed,  unable  longer  to  con- 
trol her  emotion. 

"Forgive  me,"  he  said,  deeply  moved.  "I  should 
have  known  my  reference  to  the  trial  would  distress 
you." 

Her  sobs  increased.  He  looked  at  her  in  alarm,  a 
moisture  in  his  eyes  speaking  his  compassion.  He 
realized  that  he  was  powerless  to  soothe  her  outburst 
of  grief.  Her  tears  were  not  alone  those  of  sorrow. 
The  man  she  loved  knew  the  truth — the  truth  that 
she  had  feared.  He  had  been  aware  of  it  from  the 
first  and  had  never  spoken.  How  sweet  the  thought, 
and  how  great  must  be  his  love !  Her  bitter  sense  of 
shame  was  followed  by  a  sigh  of  relief  and  content. 
Then  again  fear  controlled  her.  He  was  about  to  re- 
nounce his  public  career  to  the  ruin  of  his  future,  his 
life ;  and  she  alone  would  be  to  blame.  With  an  ef- 
fort she  controlled  Ler  voice. 

"Major,  you  will  not  allow  him  to  take  this  step — 
you  must  not!" 

"How  can  I  prevent  it?"  he  asked  gently.  "The 
cause  that  led  to  his  sudden  resolve  must  be  overcome. 
I  don't  even  know  it.  I  am  powerless  in  the  matter." 

She  realized  only  too  well  the  truth  of  his  words. 
It  was  for  her  to  act,  not  for  him.  The  fear  that,  per- 
haps, it  was  already  too  late  to  prevent  Malcolm  from 
carrying  out  his  design  impelled  her. 

"Major,"  she  said  tremulously,  "you  will  help  me 
— advise  me.  I — I  love  him." 


372         OEtoelpn  ^an  CourtlanD* 

He  met  her  glance  with  a  smile  of  satisfaction  and 
delight. 

"The  battle's  won,"  he  mused,  "and  the  young  ras- 
cal's safe." 

With  fatherly  tenderness  he  took  her  hand  in  both 
his  own,  and  soothed  and  comforted  her.  The  re- 
serve once  broken,  with  a  child's  candor  she  told  him 
all,  of  her  love,  and  of  her  refusal  of  Malcolm,  be- 
cause of  the  fear  that  the  future  might  bring  him  re- 
gret. The  Major  listened,  silent  and  sympathetic, 
knowing  that  the  confession  of  her  love  brought  with 
it  a  sweet  feeling  of  peace. 

A  step  in  the  outer  office  caused  the  Major  to  as- 
sume a  listening  attitude.  Betts  was  answering  a 
question  of  the  visitor.  Strong,  his  eyes  dancing 
with  expectancy,  strode  to  the  door  and  opened  it. 
Malcolm,  at  a  sign  from  his  partner,  entered  quickly. 

"Evelyn!" 

At  the  sound  of  his  voice  she  uttered  a  cry  of  joy. 
The  Major  had  disappeared — the  lovers  were  alone. 

Malcolm's  arms  were  about  her,  his  lips  pressed  to 
hers.  No  word  vvas  spoken — none  was  needed ;  their 
eyes  told  of  love,  perfect  and  supreme. 

The  Major,  softly  whistling,  was  descending  the 
stairs  to  the  street. 

Betts  leaned  over  his  books,  a  look  of  consternation 
on  his  thin  features,  while  the  hand  that  held  the  pen 
trembled.  For  the  first  time  in  many  years  he  had 


$an  CouctlanD.         373 

made  an  error  in  figuring.  Shaking  his  head  sadly, 
he  readied  for  an  eraser  and  rectified  the  mistake. 

"Five  o'clock,"  he  said,  in  a  strange  voice.  He 
glanced  at  the  door  of  the  private  office.  A  gleam  of 
elation  shone  in  his  kindly  gray  eyes.  With  his  cus- 
tomary deliberation  he  took  his  coat  and  glanced  once 
more  at  the  clock. 

"Perhaps  Mr.  Malcolm  will  close  the  office,"  he 
said  softly. 

With  a  sigh  of  satisfaction  he  went  out. 


THE  END. 


J£SOUT|«RN  REGIONAL  LIBRARY  FACILITY 


A     000  036  277     2 


